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3.  <L  Saul  Collection 

or 

nineteenth  Century 
Englteb  literature 


puvcbasefc  in  part 
tbrouob  a  contribution  to  tbc 
Xibrarp  jfnn^s  ma&e  b^  tbe 
Department   of  Englfsb   in 
College. 


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VICTORIAN  POETS.  Revised  and  Enlarged  Edition. 
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POETS  OF  AMERICA.  A  companion  volume  to  "  Vic 
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A  VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY.  1837-1895.  Selec 
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AN  AMERICAN  ANTHOLOGY.  1787-1900.  Selec 
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THE   NATURE  AND   ELEMENTS   OF  POETRY. 

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PROSE   AND    POETIC   WORKS.     Including  Poems, 

Victorian  Poets,  Poets  of  America,  Nature  and  Elements 

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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


A  VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY 


VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY 

1837-1895 


HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  A  CO. 


VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY 


1837-1895 


SELECTIONS  ILLUSTRATING  THE  EDITOR'S  CRITICAL 

REVIEW  OF  BRITISH   POETRY  IN  THE 

REIGN  OF  VICTORIA 


EDITED  BY 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "VICTORIAN  POETS,"  BTC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

€fee  mitewibe  prc#,  Cambridge 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


All  rights  reserved. 


SIXTEENTH   IMPRESSION 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass. ,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


To 


ELLEN   MACKAY  HUTCHINSON 


INTRODUCTION 


WHILE  this  book  is  properly  termed  an  Anthology,  its  scope  is  limited  to  the 
yield  of  one  nation  during  a  single  reign.  Its  compiler's  office  is  not  that  of  one 
who  ranges  the  whole  field  of  English  poetry,  from  the  ballad  period  to  our  own 
time,  —  thus  having  eight  centuries  from  which  to  choose  his  songs  and  idyls,  each 
"  round  and  perfect  as  a  star."  This  has  been  variously  essayed ;  once,  at  least,  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  render  it  unlikely  that  any  new  effort,  for  years  to  come,  will 
better  the  result  attained. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  present  work  relates  to  the  poetry  of  the  English  people, 
and  of  the  English  tongue,  that  knight  peerless  among  languages,  at  this  stage  of 
their  manifold  development.  I  am  fortunate  in  being  able  to  make  use  of  such 
resources  for  the  purpose  of  gathering,  in  a  single  yet  inclusive  volume,  a  Victo 
rian  garland  fairly  entitled  to  its  name.  The  conditions  not  only  permit  but 
require  me  —  while  choosing  nothing  that  does  not  further  the  general  plan  —  to 
be  somewhat  less  rigid  and  eclectic  than  if  examining  the  full  domain  of  English 
poesy.  That  plan  is  not  to  offer  a  collection  of  absolutely  flawless  poems,  long  since 
become  classic  and  accepted  as  models  ;  but  in  fact  to  make  a  truthful  exhibit  of  the 
course  of  song  during  the  last  sixty  years,  as  shown  by  the  poets  of  Great  Britain 
in  the  best  of  their  shorter  productions. 

Otherwise,  and  as  the  title-page  implies,  this  Anthology  is  designed  to  supplement 
my  "  Victorian  Poets,"  by  choice  and  typical  examples  of  the  work  discussed  in 
that  review.  These  are  given  in  unmutilated  form,  except  that,  with  respect  to 
a  few  extended  narrative  or  dramatic  pieces,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  make  extracts 
which  are  somewhat  complete  in  themselves  ;  it  being  difficult  otherwise  to  repre 
sent  certain  names,  and  yet  desirable  that  they  shall  be  in  some  wise  represented. 

At  first  I  thought  to  follow  a  strictly  chronological  method:  that  is,  to  give 
authors  succession  in  the  order  of  their  birth-dates ;  but  had  not  gone  far  before  it 
was  plain  that  such  an  arrangement  conveyed  no  true  idea  of  the  poetic  movement 


INTRODUCTION 


within  the  years  involved.  It  was  disastrously  inconsistent  with  the  course  taken 
in  the  critical  survey  now  familiar  to  readers  of  various  editions  since  its  orig 
inal  issue  in  1875  and  extension  in  1887.  In  that  work  the  leading  poets,  and 
the  various  groups  and  "  schools,"  are  examined  for  the  most  part  in  the  order  of 
their  coming  into  vogue.  Some  of  the  earlier-born  published  late  in  life,  or  other 
wise  outlasted  their  juniors,  and  thus  belong  to  the  later  rather  than  the  opening 
divisions  of  the  period.  In  the  end,  I  conformed  to  the  plan  shown  in  the  ensuing 
"  Table  of  Contents."  This,  it  will  be  perceived,  is  first  set  off  into  three  divisions 
of  the  reign,  and  secondly  into  classes  of  poets,  —  which  in  each  class,  finally,  are 
quoted  in  order  of  their  seniority.  For  page-reference,  then,  the  reader  will  not 
depend  upon  the  "  Contents,"  but  turn  to  the  Indexes  of  Authors,  First  Lines, 
and  Titles,  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 

It  is  an  arbitrary  thing,  at  the  best,  to  classify  poets,  like  song-birds,  into  genera 
and  species ;  nor  is  this  attempted  at  all  in  my  later  division,  which  aims  to  pre 
sent  them  chronologically.  Time  itself,  however,  is  a  pretty  logical  curator,  and  at 
least  decides  the  associations  wherewith  we  invest  the  names  of  singers  long  gone 
by.  Those  so  individual  as  to  fall  into  no  obvious  alliance  are  called  "  distinctive," 
in  the  first  and  middle  divisions  at  large.  Song  and  hymn  makers,  dramatists, 
meditative  poets,  etc.,  are  easily  differentiated,  and  the  formation  of  other  groups 
corresponds  with  that  outlined  in  "  Victorian  Poets."  Upon  the  method  thus 
adopted,  and  with  friendly  allowance  for  the  personal  equation,  it  seems  to  me 
that  a  conspectus  of  the  last  sixty  years  can  be  satisfactorily  obtained.  The  shorter 
pieces  named  in  my  critical  essays,  as  having  distinction,  are  usually  given  here. 
While  representing  the  poetic  leaders  most  fully,  I  have  not  overlooked  choice 
estrays,  and  I  have  been  regardful  of  the  minor  yet  significant  drifts  by  which 
the  tendencies  of  any  literary  or  artistic  generation  frequently  are  discerned.  In 
trying  to  select  the  best  and  most  characteristic  pieces,  one  sometimes  finds,  by 
a  paradox,  that  an  author  when  most  characteristic  is  not  always  at  his  best.  On 
the  whole,  and  nearly  always  with  respect  to  the  elder  poets  whose  work  has  under 
gone  long  sifting,  poems  well'known  and  favored  deserve  their  repute ;  and  pref 
erence  has  not  been  given,  merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty,  to  inferior  productions. 
Authors  who  were  closely  held  to  task  in  the  critical  volume  are  represented,  in  the 
Anthology,  by  their  work  least  open  to  criticism.  Finally,  I  believe  that  all  those 
discussed  in  the  former  book,  whether  as  objects  of  extended  review  or  as  minor 
contemporaries,  are  represented  here,  except  a  few  that  have  failed  to  justify  their 
promise  or  have  produced  little  suited  to  such  a  collection.  In  addition,  a  showing 


INTRODUCTION  xi 


is  made  of  various  poets  hopefully  come  to  light  since  the  extension  of  my  survey, 
in  1887.  Others  of  equal  merit,  doubtless,  are  omitted,  but  with  youth  on  their 
side  they  may  well  await  the  recognition  of  future  editors. 

This  Introduction  goes  beyond  the  scope  of  the  usual  Preface,  in  order  that  those 
rho  (as  students  of  English  poetry)  avail  themselves  of  the  Anthology,  and  who 
ive  but  a  limited  knowledge  of  the  modern  field,  may  readily  understand  the  gen- 
and  secondary  divisions.     To  such  readers  a  word  concerning  the  period  may 
of  interest. 

In  a  letter  to  the  editor,  Canon  Dixon  speaks  of  "  the  Victorian  Period  "  as  "  one 
of  the  longest  in  literary  history ;  perhaps  the  longest."  With  regard  to  an  indi 
vidual,  or  to  a  reign,  length  of  years  is  itself  an  aid  to  distinction,  through  its  pro 
longation  of  a  specific  tendency  or  motive.  The  reign  now  closing  has  been  one  in 
which  a  kingdom  has  become  an  empire ;  its  power  has  broadened  and  its  wealth 
and  invention  have  increased  as  never  before.  In  science,  —  and  in  works  of 
the  imagination,  despite  the  realistic  stress  of  journalism,  —  twenty  years  of  the 
recent  era  outvie  any  fifty  between  the  Protectorate  and  the  beginning  of  our 
century.  During  every  temporary  lull  we  fear  sterility,  but  one  need  not  confine 
his  retrospection  to  the  blank  from  1700  to  1795  to  be  assured  that  an  all-round 
comparison  with  the  past  must  be  in  our  favor.  While,  then,  it  is  but  a  hazardous 
thing  to  estimate  one's  own  day,  the  essays  to  which  the  Anthology  is  a  complement 
would  not  have  been  written  but  for  a  conviction  that  the  time  under  review  was 
destined  to  rank  with  the  foremost  times  of  England's  intellectual  activity, —  to  be 
classed,  it  well  might  be,  among  the  few  culminating  eras  of  European  thought  and 
art,  as  one  to  which  even  the  title  of  "  Age "  should  be  applied.  We  speak  of 
Queen  Anne's  time ;  of  the  Georgian  Period,  and  we  have  epochs  within  periods ; 
but  we  say  the  Age  of  Pericles,  the  Augustan  Age,  the  Elizabethan  Age,  and  it  is 
not  beyond  conjecture  that  posterity  may  award  the  master  epithet  to  the  time  of 
Carlyle  and  Froude,  of  Mill  and  Spencer  and  Darwin,  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and 
their  successors,  of  Tennyson  and  Browning,  —  and  thus  not  only  for  its  wonders 
of  power,  science,  invention,  but  for  an  imaginative  fertility  unequalled  since  "  the 
spacious  days  "  of  the  Virgin  Queen.  The  years  of  her  modern  successor,  whose 
larger  sway  betokens  such  an  evolution,  have  been  so  prolonged,  and  so  beneficent 
under  the  continuous  wisdom  of  her  statesmen,  that  the  present  reign  may  find  no 
historic  equal  in  centuries  to  come.  An  instinctive  recognition  of  this  seems  now  to 
prevail.  Even  the  adjective  "  Victorian  "  was  unfamiliar,  if  it  had  been  employed 
at  all,  when  I  used  it  in  the  title  of  a  magazine  essay  (the  germ  of  my  subsequent 


xii  INTRODUCTION 


volume)  published  in  January,  1873.  It  is  now  as  well  in  use  as  "  Elizabethan  "  or 
"  Georgian,"  and  advisedly,  for  the  cycle  bearing  the  name  has  so  rounded  upon  it 
self  that  an  estimate  of  its  characteristic  portion  can  be  made  ab  extra ;  all  the 
more,  because  in  these  latter  days  "  the  thoughts  of  men  "  are  not  only  "  widened," 
but  hastened  toward  just  conclusions,  as  if  in  geometrical  progression.  What,  then, 
my  early  essays  found  an  ample  ground  for  study,  the  present  compilation  seeks  to 
illustrate,  and  I  trust  that,  although  restricted  to  brief  exemplifications,  it  will  some 
what  justify  this  preliminary  claim. 

In  the  following  pages,  then,  the  period  is  divided  into,  first,  the  early  years  of 
the  reign ;  second,  the  Victorian  epoch  proper ;  third,  the  present  time.  A  survey  of 
the  opening  division  brings  out  an  interesting  fact.  Of  the  poets  cited  as  prominent 
after  1835  and  until  the  death  of  Wordsworth,  scarcely  one  shows  any  trace  of  the 
artistic  and  speculative  qualities  which  are  essentially  Victorian.  Well-informed 
readers  may  be  surprised  to  find  so  many  antedating  the  influence  of  Tennyson, 
untouched  by  his  captivating  and  for  a  long  time  dominating  style.  Their  work  is 
that  of  a  transition  era,  holding  over  into  the  present  reign.  It  was  noted  for  its 
songs  and  sentiment.  The  feeling  of  Wordsworth  is  plain  in  its  meditative  verse ;  yet 
to  this  time  belong  Bulwer,  Macaulay,  the  "  Blackwood  "  and  "  Bentley  "  coteries, 
"  Barry  Cornwall,"  and  those  "  strayed  Elizabethans,"  Darley  and  Beddoes.  Mil- 
man,  Talf  ourd,  Knowles,  and  others  are  not  quoted,  partly  on  account  of  their  lack  of 
quality,  but  chiefly  because  at  their  best  they  are  late  Georgian  rather  than  early 
Victorian.  Praed  comes  in  as  the  pioneer  of  our  society-verse  ;  Elliott  as  a  bard  of 
"  the  new  day."  In  fact,  the  Reform  Bill  crisis  evoked  the  humanitarian  spirit, 
poetically  at  its  height  in  the  writings  of  Hood  and  Mrs.  Browning.  To  include 
Wordsworth,  the  Queen's  first  laureate  of  her  own  appointment,  farther  than  by  a 
prelude  on  **  the  passing  of  the  elder  bards  "  would  be  to  rob  the  Georgian  Period  of 
the  leader  of  one  of  its  great  poetic  movements ;  yet  Wordsworth  breathes  through 
out  our  entire  selection,  wherever  Nature  is  concerned,  or  philosophic  thought,  and 
not  only  in  the  contemplative  verse,  but  in  the  composite,  and  never  more  strenu 
ously  than  in  Palgrave  and  Arnold,  of  the  middle  division,  and  such  a  poet  as  Wat 
son,  of  the  third.  Landor,  though  the  comrade  of  Southey,  the  foil  of  Byron,  and 
the  delight  of  Shelley,  begins  this  volume,  as  he  began  its  predecessor ;  for  Landor 
with  his  finish,  his  classical  serenity,  and  his  wonderful  retention  of  the  artistic  fac 
ulty  until  his  death  —  a  score  of  years  after  the  Accession  —  belonged  to  no  era 
more  than  to  our  own,  —  and  we  may  almost  say  that  in  poetry  he  and  Swinburne 
were  of  the  same  generation. 


INTRODUCTION  xiil 


Two  thirds  of  our  space  are  naturally  required  for  selections  from  the  typical 
division.  This  is  seen  to  begin  with  the  appointment  of  Tennyson  as  laureate,  since 
he  scarcely  had  a  following  until  about  that  date.  In  him  we  find,  on  the  reflective 
side,  a  sense  of  Nature  akin  to  Wordsworth's,  and  on  the  aesthetic,  an  artistic  per 
fection  foretokened  by  Keats,  —  in  other  words,  insight  and  taste  united  through 
his  genius  had  their  outcome  in  the  composite  idyllic  school,  supremely  represen 
tative  of  the  Victorian  prime.  Tennyson  idealized  the  full  advance  of  nineteenth 
century  speculation,  ethical  and  scientific,  in  the  production  of  "  In  Memoriam," 
and  to  the  end  in  such  a  poem  as  "  Vastness."  Possibly,  also,  it  was  out  of  his  early 
mediaeval  romanticism  that  the  next  most  striking  school  arose  with  Rossetti  and  his 
fellow  Pre-Raphaelites  who  are  grouped  as  Poets  of  the  Renaissance :  their  revival  in 
cluding  both  Greek  and  Gothic  modes  and  motives,  as  finally  combined  in  the  mas- 
terwork  of  Swinburne.  The  third  and  equal  force  of  the  epoch  is  that  of  Browning, 
long  holding  his  rugged  ground  alone,  as  afterward  with  half  the  world  to  stay  him ; 
but,  like  other  men  of  unique  genius,  not  the  founder  of  a  school,  —  his  manner  fail 
ing  in  weaker  hands.  In  Arnold's  composite  verse  the  reflective  prevails  over  the  aes 
thetic.  Besides  these  chiefs  of  the  quarter-century  are  various  "  distinctive  "  poets, 
as  in  the  earlier  division,  each  belonging  to  no  general  group.  Then  we  have  the 
songsters,  for  whom  all  of  us  confess  a  kindly  feeling  ;  the  balladists  withal,  and  the 
dramatists,  —  such  as  they  are ;  also  the  makers  of  lighter  verse,  and  other  lyrists 
of  a  modest  station,  often  yielding  something  that  lends  a  special  grace  to  an 
Anthology. 

The  closing  era  is  of  the  recent  poets  of  Great  Britain,  and  begins  very  clearly 
about  twenty  years  ago.  At  that  date,  the  direct  influences  of  Tennyson,  Brown 
ing,  Swinburne,  and  Rossetti  began  to  appear  less  obviously,  or  were  blended,  where 
apparent,  in  the  verse  of  a  younger  generation.  The  new  lyrists  had  motives  of 
their  own,  and  here  and  there  a  new  note.  There  was  a  lighter  touch,  a  daintiness 
of  wit  and  esprit,  a  revival  of  early  minstrel  "forms,"  and  every  token  of  a 
blithe  and  courtly  Ecole  Interme*diaire  :  evidence,  at  least,  of  emancipation  from 
the  stress  of  the  long  dominant  Victorian  chord.  The  change  has  become  decisive 
since  the  "  Jubilee  Year,"  to  which  my  supplementary  review  was  extended,  and 
of  late  we  have  a  distinctly  lyrical,  though  minor  song-burst,  even  if  the  mother 
country  be  not,  as  in  its  springtime  of  pleasant  minstrelsy,  "  a  nest  of  singing-birds." 
In  the  later  ditties  England's  hawthorn-edged  lanes  and  meadows  come  to  mind, 
the  skylark  carols,  and  we  have  verse  as  pastoral  as  Mr.  Abbey's  drawings  for 
Herrick  and  Goldsmith.  This,  to  my  view,  if  not  very  great,  is  more  genuine  and 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 


hopeful  than  any  further  iteration  of  "  French  Forms,"  and  the  same  may  be  occa. 
sionally  said  for  those  town-lyrics  which  strive  to  express  certain  garish,  wandering 
phases  of  the  London  of  to-day.  Irish  verse,  which  always  has  had  quality,  begins 
to  take  on  art.  But  the  strongest  recent  work  is  found  in  the  ballads  of  a  few  men 
and  women,  and  of  these  balladists,  one  born  out  of  Great  Britain  is  first  without  3 
seeming  effort.  As  for  the  drama  (considering  the  whole  reign),  its  significant 
poetry,  beyond  a  few  structures  modelled  after  the  antique,  and  those  of  Home,  Tay= 
lor,  and  Swinburne,  is  found  mainly  in  the  peculiar  and  masterful  work  of  Browning ; 
nevertheless,  lyrical  song  indicates  a  dramatic  inspiration,  because  it  is  so  human, 
and  if  the  novel  did  not  afford  a  continuous  exercise  of  the  dramatic  gift,  I  would 
look  to  see  the  drama,  or  verse  with  pronounced  dramatic  qualities,  attend  the  rise 

1  of  the  next  poetic  school.     If,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  to  ensue  a  non-imagina 
tive  era,  a  fallow  interval,  it  will  be  neither  strange  nor  much  to  be  deplored  after 

!  the  productive  affluence  of  the  reign  now  ending  with  the  century. 

A  selection  from  the  minstrelsy  of  Great  Britain's  colonies  fills  out  the  scheme 
of  the  Anthology.  The  Australian  yield  is  sufficiently  meagre,  but  I  have  chosen 
what  seems  most  local  and  characteristic.  "Canada  is  well  in  the  lists  with  a  group 
of  lyrists  whose  merit  has  made  their  names  familiar  to  readers  of  our  own 
periodicals,  and  who  feel  and  healthfully  express  the  sentiment,  the  atmosphere,  of 
their  northern  land.  I  am  sure  that  the  space  reserved  for  them  in  this  volume 
will  not  seem  ill-bestowed.  One  noteworthy  trait  of  colonial  poetry  is  the  frequency 
with  which  it  takes  the  ballad  form.  In  a  rude  way  this  is  seen  in  the  literature 
of  our  own  colonial  period,  and  along  our  more  recent  frontier  settlements.  By 
some  law  akin  to  that  which  makes  balladry  —  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth  — 
the  natural  song  of  primitive  man,  of  the  epic  youth  of  a  race  or  nation,  so  its  form 
and  spirit  appear  to  characterize  the  verse  of  a  people  not  primitive,  though  the 
colonial  pioneers  of  life  and  literature  in  a  new  land. 

To  a  few  exquisite  but  unnamed  quatrains  and  lyrics  by  Landor,  I  have  pre 
fixed  the  felicitous  titles  given  to  them  by  Mr.  Aldrich  in  the  little  book  "  Cameos," 
of  which  he  and  I  were  the  editors  a  score  of  years  ago.  From  the  early  min 
strels  a  compiler's  selections  are  not  hard  to  make.  The  panel  already  has  been 
struck  by  time  itself,  which  declares  that,  even  in  the  case  of  some  uneven  roisterer, 
one  or  two  fortunate  catches  shall  preserve  his  name.  More  embarrassment  comes 
from  the  knowledge  that  lovers  of  such  poets  as  Tennyson,  who  made  no  imperfect 
poem,  and  Browning,  who  wrote  none  that  was  meaningless,  are  slow  to  understand 
why  certain  pieces,  for  which  an  editor,  doubtless,  shares  their  own  regard,  are 


INTRODUCTION  xv 


perforce  omitted.  To  surmise,  moreover,  which  is  the  one  lasting  note  of  a  new  voice 
or  which  of  all  the  younger  band  is  to  win  renown,  this  is  the  labor  and  the  work, 
seeing  that  as  to  finish  they  are  all  sensitive  enough,  except  now  and  then  one  who 
invites  attention  by  contempt  for  it.  Nothing  is  more  evident  than  the  good  crafts 
manship  of  latter-day  English  and  American  verse-makers,  —  a  matter  of  course, 
after  the  object-lessons  given  by  their  immediate  forbears.  All  in  all,  the  antholo 
gist  must  rest  his  cause  upon  its  good  intention.  In  speaking  of  those  who  hunt 
up  and  reprint  the  faulty  work  of  authors,  — "  the  imperfect  thing  or  thought " 
which  in  mature  years  they  have  tried  to  suppress,  —  Palgrave  justly  says  in  his 
«  Pro  Mortuis,"  — 

"  Nor  has  the  dead  worse  foe  than  he 

Who  rakes  these  sweepings  of  the  artist's  room, 

And  piles  them  on  his  tomb." 

Conversely,  one  perhaps  earns  some  right  to  count  himself  the  artist's  friend, 
whose  endeavor  is  to  discover  and  preserve,  from  the  once  cherished  treasures  of 
even  a  humble  fellow  of  the  craft,  at  least  "  one  gem  of  song,  defying  age." 

Compact  Biographical  Notes,  upon  all  the  poets  represented,  follow  the  main 
text.  Where  authorities  conflict,  and  usually,  also,  in  the  cases  of  recent  authors, 
effort  has  been  made  to  secure  the  desired  information  at  first  hand.  For  this, 
and  for  the  general  result,  my  hearty  thanks  are  due  to  the  skill  and  patience  of 
Miss  Vernetta  E.  Colemaiu  who  has  prepared  the  greater  portion  of  the  Notes. 
The  faithfulness  of  the  text  at  large  has  been  enhanced  by  the  cooperation  of  the 
Riverside  Press,  and  this  is  not  the  first  time  when  I  have  been  grateful  to  its 
Corrector  and  his  assistants  for  really  critical  attention  given  to  a  work  passing 
through  their  hands. 

E.  C.  S. 

NEW  YORK,  September,  1895. 


NOTE 

FOR  the  text  of  the  selections  in  this  Anthology,  transcripts  have  been  made,  as  far  as  possible, 
from  the  books  of  the  respective  authors,  many  of  which  volumes  are  upon  the  editor's  shelves. 
Much  dependence,  however,  has  been  placed  on  the  Astor,  Mercantile,  Columbia  College,  and  Soci 
ety  Libraries,  and  the  Library  of  the  Y.  W.  C.  Association.  To  the  librarians  of  these  institutions 
the  editor's  acknowledgments  are  rendered  for  courteous  assistance.  His  thanks  are  due,  also,  to 
Mr.  R.  H.  Stoddard,  Mr.  R.  W.  Gilder,  Prof.  Brander  Matthews,  and  Prof.  F.  D.  Sherman,  of 
New  York,  Mr.  Harrison  S.  Morris,  of  Philadelphia,  Mr.  G.  H.  Ellwanger,  of  Rochester,  and  Prof. 
C.  G.  D.  Roberts,  late  of  Windsor,  N.  S.,  for  giving  him  the  use  of  their  collections,  and  to  a  few 
other  friends  for  various  services.  With  respect  to  attractive  single  poems,  and  to  authors  whose 
original  editions  could  not  be  obtained,  he  has  found  the  eight  volumes  of  Mr.  Miles's  "The 
Poets  and  the  Poetry  of  the  Century  "  welcome  aids  to  his  research.  Use  also  has  been  made  of 
Mr.  Sharp's  "Canterbury  Poets"  series, Prof.  Sladen's  "  Australian  Poets,"  Mr.  Schuyler-Light- 
hall's  "  Songs  of  the  Great  Dominion,"  and  of  several  minor  collections  of  Scottish,  Irish,  and 
English-dialect  verse. 

His  thanks  are  rendered  to  many  living  British  poets,  who  now,  under  the  amended  copyright 
law,  are  so  closely  affiliated  with  us,  for  the  privilege  cheerfully  given  of  taking  his  own  selections 
from  their  works.  This  usufruct  has  been  generously  confirmed  by  the  publishers  issuing  their 
American  editions.  The  editor  desires  to  express  his  grateful  obligations  to  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.  and  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  of  London  and  New  York ;  to  Messrs.  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  and  the  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company,  of  New  York ;  to  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers  and  Messrs.  Copeland  &  Day,  of 
Boston ;  and  to  Messrs.  Stone  &  Kimball  and  Messrs.  Way  &  Williams,  of  Chicago. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


I.  EARLY  YEARS  OF  THE  REIGN 

(TRANSITION  PERIOD) 
DISTINCTIVE    POETS    AND    DRAMATISTS 


(iMaltcr  &a»age  Lanflor 

?  ^  i 

AGE 

OVERTURE  —  FROM  "THRASYMEDES  AND 

EUNOE"    

3 

THE  HAMADRYAD    .       .' 

3 

THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA   . 

7 

FROM  "MYRTIS"     

7 

8 

8 

8 

AN  INVOCATION       .       .       .              «~. 

8 

FROM  "GEBIR"  

8 

To  YOUTH        ...      .*,->-    .-  ., 

9 

To  AGE        .       ,       «  :.'  «<i,-  *••  •  . 

10 

ROSE  AYLMER  

10 

ROSE  AYLMER'S  HAIR,  GIVEN  BY   HER 

SISTER       

10 

CHILD  OF  A  DAY     ...       .  ~  :~'r  :   ,  ; 

10 

FIESOLAN  IDYL    

10 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY      .       .' 

11 

THE  MAID'S  LAMENT         .... 

11 

MARGARET        .       .       ,       ,       .       v 

12 

12 

PLAYS        .        .       .       .       .       •       • 

12 

THERE   FALLS   WITH    EVERY   WEDDING 

CHIME        ;       .    *  .       i       •       •       . 

12 

SHAKESPEARE  AND  MILTON   . 

12 

MACAULAY    

12 

ROBERT  BROWNING         .... 

13 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  D'OssoiJ  AND  HIS 

WIFE  MARGARET  FULLER 

13 

13 

13 

13 

THE  TEST     .       «l      »•.... 

13 

IN  AFTER  TIME       . 

14 

A  PROPHECY        

14 

COWSLIPS  

14 

WRINKLES    .       .       .       .       i 

14 

ADVICE      .        .       .       <       i 

14 

14 

TIME  TO  BE  WISE   . 
THE  ONE  WHITE  HAIR     . 
ON  HIMSELF     .... 
ON  LUCRETIA  BORGIA'S  HAIR 
PERSISTENCE     .       %       .    '  » 
MAN      .....  •*.!-. 

To  SLEEP 

ON  LIVING  TOO  LONG 

A  THOUGHT      .... 

HEARTSEASE 

VERSES  WHY  BURNT      .   .    .* 

DEATH  UN  DREADED    . 

MEMORY    .        .       .       •      V 

FOR  AN  EPITAPH  AT  FIESOLE 


THE  FLOWER  OF  BEAUTY         ...  17 

SUMMER  WINDS       .....  17 
SONGS   FROM  "SYLVIA;   OR,  THE  MAY 
QUEEN" 

1.  Chorus  of  Spirits    .        .        .        .  17 

2.  Morning-Song     .....  17 

3.  Nephon's  Song       .  l    :  ;'     '  ^     '  .  18 

4.  Romanzo  to  Sylvia    .        .        .        .18 


$rpan  Waller 

("  BARRY  CORNWALL  M  ) 

THE  SEA       . 

THE  HUNTER'S  SONG      .. 
THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  His  WIFE 
THE  STORMY  PETREL     .. 
PEACE!  WHAT  DO  TEARS  AVAIL? 
LIFE  .....  -  -.• 
THE  BLOOD  HORSE    .     ,  .       . 
SIT  DOWN,  SAD  SOUL      .       . 
GOLDEN-TRESSED  ADELAIDE     . 
A  POET'S  THOUGHT        •'      • 
A  PETITION  TO  TIME 


19 
19 
20 
20 
20 
20 
21 

21 
22 
22 


XV111 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


FROM  "JOSEPH  AND  His  BRETHREN 


J)cnrj>  Caplor 

FROM  "  PHILIP  VAN  ARTEVELDE  ".        . 
FROM  "EDWIN  THE  FAIR"   ... 
A  CHARACTERIZATION  —  LINES  ON   THE 
HON.  EDWARD  VILLIERS        ... 
ARETINA'S  SONG      ..... 


22 


THE  HERO    .  .    27 


lorfc  ;ff  acattlap 

(THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY) 
THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY  . 
EPITAPH  ON  A  JACOBITE 
IVRY 


EitfjarU  J)enffi0t  INrne 

FROM  "ORION:  AN  EPIC  POEM"    . 

GENIUS 

PELTERS  OF  PYRAMIDS 
SOLITUDE  AND  THE  LILY 

THE  SLAVE 

THE  PLOUGH 


FROM  "TORRISMOND! 
DREAM-PEDLARY     . 


30 
35 
35 
36 
36 
36 


BALLAD  OF  HUMAN  LIFE  .        ...  38 
SONGS  FROM  "  DEATH'S  JEST-BOOK  " 

1.  To  Sea,  to  Sea  !      .        .        .        .  38 

2.  Dirge           ......  38 

3.  Athulf  's  Death  Song      ...  38 

4.  Second  Dirge      .....  39 
SONGS  FROM  "THE  BRIDES'  TRAGEDY" 

1.  Hesperus  sings        ....  39 

2.  Love  goes  a-hawking         .        .        .39 


Eobert 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  MEN 
MAWGAN  OF  MELHUACH    .       . 
FEATHERSTONE'S  DOOM  ... 
"PATER  VESTER  PASCIT  ILLA"       . 
THE  SILENT  TOWER  OF  BOTTREAU 
To  ALFRED  TENNYSON      .       .       . 


40 
40 
40 
40 
41 
41 


iptton 

(EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER) 

THE   CARDINAL'S   SOLILOQUY  —  FROM 
"RICHELIEU"  ......    42 

WHEN  STARS  ARE  IN  THE  QUIET  SKIES       43 

Militant  (KUmontifit0ttnc  Slptottn 

THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE        .       .    44 
MASSACRE  OF  THE  MACPHERSON  .  46 


POETS   OF  QUALITY 


(ZTbomac  iotoe  Jhac0tft 

THE  MEN  OF  GOTHAM  .  .  .  .47 
THE  WAR-SONG  OF  DINAS  VAWR  .  47 
MARGARET  LOVE  PEACOCK  ...  47 


WUntjjrop  JHacfetoortI)  JJraeK 

THE  VICAR 

THE  NEWLY-WEDDED    . 


|)artlep 


THEOCRITUS 


48 


49 


THE  ROISTERERS 


Harris 

("THOMAS  INGOLDSBT") 

THE  JACKDAW  OF  RHEIMS       .       .       . 

MR.   BARNEY  MAGUIRE'S  ACCOUNT  OF 

THE  CORONATION         .... 


OTUItam 

THE  IRISHMAN  AND  THE  LADY 
THE  SOLDIER-BOY 

francid  JHa&onp 

("FATHER  PROUT") 
THE  SHANDON  BELLS        .. 


54 
55 


55 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


xix 


MEDm 
Gffltlliam  §>ttmep  TOatittr 

DEATH'S  ALCHEMY         .... 

^artlep  ColeriUffe 

ITF 
66 

56 
56 
57 
57 
57 
57 
57 
58 

58 
58 

58 
59 
59 
59 
59 

60 
60 

61 
61 

62 

62 

63 
64 

^E   POETS 
Cfoomag  filler 

THE  OLD  BARON     

64 
66 

65 
66 

66 
67 

67 
67 

67 
68 

68 
69 

tilt 

m 

69 
70 
70 
70 

70 
71 
71 
72 

72 

Jobn,  lorU  pamner 

THE  PINE  WOODS 

THE  BIKTH  OF  SPEECH  .... 
WHITHER?           .        .        . 

Lortt  ftotttrbton 

(RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNKS) 

AN  ENVOY  TO  AN  AMERICAN  LADY       • 
THE  BROOK-SIDE    .       .    ***       ,       . 

JFrancee  Slnne  feemble 

THE  BLACK  WALL-FLOWER     . 
FAITH        

l)enrp  atlforU 

To  SHAKESPEARE    

"MULTUM  DILEXIT"       .       .               . 

&nna  Jameson 

TAKE  ME,  MOTHER  EARTH       .    7;.y   ,«, 

Cbatmcp  l)are  CotoncIjenU 

THY  JOY  IN  SORROW      .,  ,yr>  . 

Jobn  Ipcnrp  JQetoman 

THE  SIGN  or  THE  CROSS  .... 

Jo^n  jlttfort 

THE  ROMAN  LEGIONS        .... 

artlwr  Ibenrp  ^allam 

WRITTEN  IN  EDINBURGH 

ftubrep  C^omas  2)e  Sere 

AN  EPICUREAN'S  EPITAPH 
FLOWERS  I  WOULD  BRING     . 

THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  CLOUD 

&ara  Colerftge 

FROM  "  PHANTASMION  " 

Charles  i!.£U)tte()eafc 

Jalw  £>terltnff 

SHAKESPEARE  
Louis  XV     
To  A  CHILD      

JJane  SUelsb  Carlple 

To  A  SWALLOW  BUILDING  UNDER  OUB 

THE  QUEEN'S  VESPERS  .       .       .       » 

(L  bomacf  ^urbiU^f 

Rtc&arto  Cljenetoij:  (ZTrcntb 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE        .     ~. 
SONNET 

ffiliUiam  l)enrp  (L51l)itttortb 

TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


ENGLISH    SONG   WRITERS 

C&arles  Stoain 


CHAMPAGNE  ROSE    .        .       .       . 

SSUlItam  potoitt 

THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW 


72 


73 


SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES          .       73 
OH!    WHERE   DO   FAIRIES   HIDE   THEIR 
HEADS  ?  .    73 


JHarp  (tatoitt 


THE  SEA  FOWLER    . 
CORNFIELDS 


I  THINK  ON  THEE 


75 


TRIPPING  DOWN  THE  FIELD-PATH  .  76 

TAKE  THE  WORLD  AS  IT  is   .        .        .  76 

LIFE 76 

THE  ROSE  THOU  GAV'ST        ...  77 

'TWAS     JUST      BEFORE      THE      HAY     WAS 
MOWN  ...  .77 


Coofc 


THE  QUIET  EYE 
THE  SEA-CHILD  . 


Mlliatn 


Bennett 


BABY  MAY 78 

BE  MINE,  AND  I  WILL  GIVE  THY  NAME    79 
A  CHRISTMAS  SONG  79 


SONGS  AND  BALLADRY  OF  SCOTLAND 


MY  AIN  WIFE 


Carlple 


THE  SOWER'S  SONG 

ADIEU 

Kobert  0ilfillan 

'Tis  SAIR  TO  DREAM 
THE  EXILE'S  SONG 


JHoir 


CASA'S  DIRGE   . 

William 

THE  MITHERLESS  BAIRN   . 


79 


81 


81 


82 


THE  SWALLOW 


iSallantine 


MUCKLE-MOU'D  MEG  . 

Stuart 


MY  BATH 

THE  EMIGRANT  LASSIE 

THE  WORKING  MAN'S  SONG 

SSEUliam  Jfttller 

WILLIE  WINKIE  . 


C[jarle0  Jladiap 


TELL  ME,  YE  WINGED  WINDS 
EARL  NORMAN  AND  JOHN  TRUMAN 
WHAT  MIGHT  BE  DONE    . 


83 


84 

85 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 
INCLUDING  THE  POETS  OF  YOUNG  IRELAND 
Samuel  Lotoer 


RORY  O'MORE;   OR,  GOOD  OMENS   . 
WIDOW  MACHREE    . 


SOGGARTH  AROON 


90 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


XX) 


(Sriffin 


A  PLACE  IN  THY  MEMORY 
NOCTURNE 


James  Clarence 


90 
91 


in 


DARK  ROSALEEN  ........    , 

SOUL  AND  COUNTRY 1)2 

J)eien  §>elina,  iatjp  SDufferin 

LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT       .       93 

Caroline  (Eli^afactl)  &ara&  Borton 

(LADY  STIELING-MAXWELL) 
WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER         .     93 

THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE  .       .       94 
LOVE  Nor     ,  .    94 


Jrancis  (Mailer 


KITTY  NEIL      .       .       .  " 
A  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG 


Samuel  J~  crtrttcon 
THE  FAIRY  THORN         ... 

VL  bonus  lOsfaorne  u?al)tc 

THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE         .. 
THE  BOATMAN  OF  KINSALE  .. 
THE  WELCOME    , 


96 


Cbarles  <9aban  Ouffp 

THE  IRISH  RAPPAREES  ....      100 

3Dems  JFlorence  fHatCartj)? 

BLESS  THE  DEAR  OLD  VERDANT  LAND  100 
THE  IRISH  WOLF-HOUND      .       .       .101 


4Sartj)olometo  totaling; 

THE  REVEL 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD 


101 


102 


Cjjomaa 

THE  CELTIC  CROSS  .....  103 
THE  IRISH  WIFE  .  .  .  .  .  103 
THE  EXILE'S  DEVOTION  ...  .104 


jFranceBca  ^peran^a,  Lafcp 
(MtlUc 

("  SPBRANZA  ") 
THE  VOICE  OF  THE  POOB      .. 


Cba  Ur  UP 


TlPPERARY    . 


CUen  ;fflarp  Patrick 

WERE  I  BUT  HIS  OWN  WIFE 


104 


105 


.  10G 


"THE   OATEN   FLUTE" 


-Banus 

(DORSIT) 


WOONE  SMILE  MWORE 
BLACKMWORE  MAIDENS 
THE  HEARE      .       -. 
THE  CASTLE  RUINS    . 


106 
107 
107 
108 


eutotn 

(LANCASHIRE) 

THE  DULE  's  i'  THIS  BONNET  o'  MINE  109 
TH'  SWEETHEART  GATE  .  .  .  109 
OWD  PINDER  .  .'•*'.  .  .110 

Samuel  Lapcock 

(LAHCASHIBB) 
WELCOME,  BONNY  BRID!      .       .       .     110 


xxii 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 
(HUMANITY  — FREE  THOUGHT  —  POLITICAL,  SOCIAL,  AND  ARTISTIC  REFORM) 


(Kiiene^er  €lltott 


ELEGY  ON  WILLIAM  COBBETT 
A  POET'S  EPITAPH 
THE  BUILDERS    . 


William 

THE  BARONS  BOLD 
LIFE  is  LOVE 


fop 


Ill 
112 
112 


112 
113 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM    .       .     113 

FLOWERS 115 

FAIR  INES 116 

THE  DEATH-BED 116 

BALLAD 116 

LEAR 117 

BALLAD 117 

FROM    "Miss    KILMANSEGG    AND    HER 
PRECIOUS  LEG" 

1.  Her  Death         .        .  •    .        .        .117 

2.  Her  Moral       .        .        .        .        .118 

RUTH 119 

THE  WATER  LADY         ....      119 

ODE  — AUTUMN 119 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT       .       .       .120 
THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER      .       .       .  121 
THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS  .       .       .       .122 
STANZAS 123 

33artf)olometo  Simmons 

STANZAS  TO   THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS 
HOOD 123 

garnet  Jftartineatt 

ON,   ON,   FOREVER 125 

iaman  ialandjarti 

NELL  GWYNNE'S  LOOKING-GLASS         .     125 
HIDDEN  JOYS 126 

(ZT&oma0  Watte 

THE  NET-BRAIDERS       .       .       .       .126 
BIRTH  AND  DEATH     .  .  126 


<t&oma0  Cooper 

CHARTIST  SONG       .       .    '  • 


127 


Jlotoer 

HYMN 127 

LOVE 127 

NEARER  TO  THEE  .  127 


Barrett  33rotoninff 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN 
MY  HEART  AND  I       ... 
SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 
A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT    . 
FROM  "CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS"  . 
A  COURT  LADY 
MOTHER  AND  POET         . 
FROM  "AURORA  LEIGH"  . 
THE  SLEEP 


domett 


A  GLEE  FOR  WINTER 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 

FROM  "A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN" 


&cott 


GLENKINDIE      ..... 
YOUTH  AND  AGE         .... 
PYGMALION       ..... 
MY  MOTHER        ..... 
THE  NORNS  WATERING  YGGDRASILL 
To  THE  DEAD      ..... 
HERO-WORSHIP 


William  3fame0  iinton 


EVICTION 
PATIENCE 
OUR  CAUSE 
HEART  AND  WILL 


128 
130 
131 
134 
134 
136 
137 
139 
142 


143 
143 
144 


144 
145 
146 
146 
146 
147 
147 


147 
147 
148 
148 


FROM  "A   THRENODY   IN  MEMORY   OF 
ALBERT  DARASZ"   .....  148 

LOVE  AND  YOUTH   .....      149 

Too  LATE     .......  149 

WEEP  NOT  !  SIGH  NOT  !    .       .       .       .149 

SPRING  AND  AUTUMN         .       .       .       .149 

LOVE'S  BLINDNESS  .....      149 

THE  SILENCED  SINGER       .       .       .       .150 

EPICUREAN  .....      150 


Eobert  Bicoll 

WE  'LL  A'  GO  PU'  THE  HEATHER 


.  150 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS                                    xxiii 

BONNIE  BESSIE  LEE       .... 

150 
151 

152 
152 

153 

153 
153 
153 
154 
154 

LHA 

158 

162 
163 

163 
164 

{    H 
168 

169 
169 

170 

ilarp  3lnn  €bans  (Letoes)  €r 

("GEORGE  ELIOT") 

"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE 
SONGS  FROM  "  THE  SPANISH  GYPSY  " 
1.  The  Dark        

OSS 

"   155 

155 
.  155 

156 
156 

££latben  itfarUs  o  dltlUo  Call 
THE  PEOPLE'S  PETITION 

2.  Song  of  the  Zi  ncali    . 

Crnest  CJjarlcs  Jones 

EARTH'S  BURDENS  .... 

C^arlec;  cvflelUon 
THE  POEM  OF  THE  UNIVERSE      .  .     . 

Cmilp  3Sronte 
SONG     '     • 

THE  WRECK        

TRUST  THOU  THY  LOVE 

Cfaene^er  Jones 

SONG  OF  THE  KINGS  OF  GOLD     m*/ 
THE  FACE         .       .       ••  •  ,    ;  vv/  • 

157 

.  157 
158 

164 
.  164 

THE  OLD  STOIC        
WARNING  AND  REPLY        .       . 

STANZAS    .       ",      v"J  •'  '  '"•'      . 

HER  LAST  LINES        

THE  I 
Philip  James  33aile? 

FROM  "FESTUS"      ^  vviU'V.  ,  f^  >',  , 

SDora  <0reentoell 

A  SONG  OF  FAREWELL  . 
To  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI    .... 

LIGHT        .       .       .       .       . 

PSODISTS 
BABY         .       .       

SONG     

THE  DESERTER  FROM  THE  CAUSE 
CHRISTIE'S  PORTRAIT         .       .    .  ,,.  .  -. 
His  BANNER  OVER  ME  .       •       •       . 

.3leranUer  ^mitl) 
FROM  "A  LIFE-DRAMA" 

165 
.  165 
166 

.  166 
168 
.  168 

WORLD  AND  SOUL      

To   -    -  

EARL1? 
James  jfiontpmerp 

AT  HOME  IN  HEAVEN    .... 

Charlotte  (Elliott 

JUST  AS  I  AM       

YMNODY 
BURIAL  HYMN     .       .       .       ,       . 

.  170 

RIDE  ON  IN  MAJESTY     . 

John  feeble 

WHO  RUNS  MAY  READ          .    <':-!j-:,.    ,   '• 

SEED  TIME  HYMN  .      '.       .»'*'. 
HOLY  MATRIMONY      .... 

S>ir  John  33otunnj 

FROM  THE  RECESSES       .       .       .       . 
WHAT  OF  THB  NIGHT? 

171 

.  171 
172 
.172 

• 

172 
.  173 

LET  ME  BE  WITH  THEE 

PRAYER  TO  THE  TRINITY  .... 

I)enri>  hart  jHtlman 
HYMN    FOR    THE    SIXTEENTH    SUNDAY 

XXIV 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


|)enrp  jFrancia  ipte 

&tt&ut  -pcitrbpn  i&tanlep 

ABIDE  WITH  ME      .        .        . 
"Lo,  WE  HAVE  LEFT  ALL"     . 
THE  SECRET  PLACE        .... 

173      TEACH  us  TO  DIE       
174 

C&ttetopljer  Betoman  J)ail 

180 

Samuel  SSiilberfotce 

MY  TIMES  ARE  IN  THY  HAND 

180 

JUST  FOR  TO-DAY       
GIVING  TO  GOD        

&nne  Bronte 

A  PRAYER   

181 

175 

ftorattug  330nat 

O  LORD,  THY  WING  OUTSPREAD  . 

181 

LOST  BUT  FOUND        
THE  VOICE  FROM  GALILEE    . 
THY  WAY,  NOT  MINE        .... 
ABIDE  WITH  Us       
THE  MASTER'S  TOUCH       .... 
A  LITTLE  WHILE    

175 

176              Cecil  jFrancea  &lej;an&er 

^na      THERE  is  A  GREEN  HILL  . 
lib 

177 

177             (Eli^abetl)  Cecilia  Ciep&ane 

182 

3T0JW  Samuel  38etolep  Jftonsell 

THE  LOST  SHEEP     

177                 l&afcine  ^Sarinff'-(!50ttHi 

CHILD'S  EVENING  HYMN    .        .       .       . 

182 
183 

frefcericfc  OTilliam  faier 

THE  WILL  OF  GOD          .... 
PARADISE      

Jtanceg  EiUlep  ^aberffal 
i/y 

179      I  GAVE  MY  LIFE  FOR  THEE 

183 

THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN    .... 

II.     THE   VICTORIAN   EPOCH 

(PERIOD  OF  TENNYSON,  ARNOLD, 

BROWNING,    ROSSETTI,   AND   SWINBURNE) 

COMPOSITE 

IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 

jFre&erufe  Cennpgon 

THIRTY-FIRST  OF  MAY       .... 
THE  BLACKBIRD       

THE  LATTICE  AT  SUNRISE 

192 
192 
193 
193 
193 
193 

194 
194 
196 
197 

187      ORION        

TO  THE   GrOSSAMER-LlGHT  .... 

189      LETTY'S  GLOBE        
HER  FIRST-BORN       

191               SUfrefc,  3LorU  Cennpaon 

191      THE  DESERTED  HOUSE 
191      THE  LOTOS-CATERS 

FROM  "NIOBE"          

C&arlea  Cennpson  Cttmet 

THE  LION'S  SKELETON      .... 
THE  VACANT  CAGE  

THE  BUOY-BELL      
THE  FOREST  GLADE   . 

192      ULYSSES     

192      SIR  GALAHAD 

TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


XXV 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINE 
VERE       

"  BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK  " 
SONGS  FROM  "THE  PRINCESS." 

As  thro'  the  Land  .... 
Sweet  and  Low   .... 

Bugle  Songl 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 
Thy  Voice  is  heard 
Ask  Me  no  more 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 
WELUNGTON     .... 

IE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRI 
GADE      ...... 

NORTHERN  FARMER  (Old  Style) 
THE  DAISY       ....      V 

THE  FLOWER  . 

)ME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD  . 
SHELL  (from  "  Maud  ") 
PASSING    OF    ARTHUR    (from 
Idylls  of  the  King  ")  .        .      *. 

IZPAH 

>WER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 
IG  IN  "  THE  FORESTERS  "    .       % 

VASTNESS  .        .       .   .i^^i!  *:•  ,-»: 
THE  SILENT  VOICES  .       .    .  ••  i/rjri 
THE  BAR 

(Earl  of  3Seacon0fcltt 

(BENJAMIN  D'!SRAELI) 
'ELLINGTON  .          .,_,     . 


198 
198 

199 
199 
199 
199 
200 
200 

200 

203 
204 
205 
206 
207 
208 

208 
209 
211 
211 
211 
212 
212 


(Tbomao  Meattoooto 

O  WIND  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  ! 
IN  THE  GOLDEN   MORNING  OF  THE 
WORLD 


A  LECTURE-ROOM      .       .    '   . 
PROTEST  .       .... 
QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

THE  BOTHIE  OF  TOBER-NA- 
VUOLICH"  ...... 

HERA  ..... 

AMOURS  DE  VOYAGE" 
DOMUM   SATURS,  VENIT   HES 
PERUS     ...... 

AH  !   YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN     . 

WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND 


3lolm  Campbell 

ICH  BEIN-Y-VREICH 


213 

213 
213 


214 
214 
214 

215 
216 
217 

217 
218 
218 


219 


iflenella  33ute  Smetolep 

THE  LITTLE  FAIR  SOUL 

Bofcert  Lntfljton 
THE  DRIED-UP  FOUNTAIN 

ittattbeuj  arnol* 

WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  ESSAYS  . 
THE  WORLD  AND  THE  QUIETIST 

FROM  "SOHRAB  AND  RuSTUM  "      . 

FROM  "BALDER  DEAD"    .       .  ...«t. 
THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN      .'.•      .      , 
PHILOMELA  ....       •  •,{«'?• 
DOVER  BEACH  .       .       .       <;      .       , 
FROM  "EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA"  .  lt^'.\ 
THE  BURIED  LIFE  . 
MEMORIAL  VERSES  (on  Wordsworth) 
GEIST'S  GRAVE        .... 

Charles  i\cnt 
POPE  AT  TWICKENHAM      .       .       . 

(LQilliam  CaHttoell  llocroc 

To  LA  SANSCCEUB    .... 
THE  MASTER-CHORD  .       .       .      •  .  '• 
EARTH       .      '.      ;.      \  .    .     .>/,1 

William  fobncon  Corp 

MlMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH     .  .    •*  !  '  .'  '* 

HERACLEITUS    ..... 
A  POOR  FRENCH  SAILOR'S  SCOTTISH 
SWEETHEART    .       .       .       .  "  . 


(iEnfotmU 


EPITAPH  OF  DIONYSIA 


219 


.220 


221 
221 
221 
223 
224 
225 
226 
226 
227 


230 


231 
231 
231 


231 
232 


Cobentrp  |)atmore 


FROM  "  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE 
THE  GIRL  OF  ALL  PERIODS    . 
FROM  "  THE  UNKNOWN  EROS  "      ..': 
REGINA  C<ELI  . 


233 
235 
235 


Walter  C.  Smith 

DAUGHTERS  OF  PHUJSTIA  (from 

"Olrig  Grange")      .....  236 
THE  SELF-EXILED  .....      237 


Jranda  Cttrner 

THE  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  MUSES 


.  239 


xxvi 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PRO  MOBTUIS 
WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  HYMN 
A  DANISH  BARROW    . 


TENNYSON 


&rtlwr 


l)cnrp  Jmrlep 


Jltmfcp 


239 
240 
240 
241 


241 


DORIS  :  A  PASTORAL          ....  242 
FROM  "DOROTHY  :  A  COUNTRY  STORY" 

Dorothy 243 

Country  Kisses 244 

Dorothy's  Room         ....      244 
Beauty  at  the  Plough    .        .        .        .245 

FLOS  FLORUM 246 

SWEET  NATURE'S  VOICE  (from  "Susan")  246 


Craig 


THE  WOODRUFFE 


247 


FROM  "  ^HE  LIGHT  OF  ASIA  "  .  .247 
THE  CALIPH'S  DRAUGHT  ...  248 
AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA  .  .  .249 

RAGLAN 250 

FROM  "  WITH  SA'DI  IN  THE  GARDEN  " 

Mahmud  and  Ayaz        ....  250 

Song  without  a  Sound         .        .        .      250 

THE  MUSMEE  .  251 


J&topfortt  &ttgtt0ttt0 


VERSAILLES  (1784)    .....  252 

THE  JUNGFRAU'S  CRY       .       .       .  .253 

SONGS  FROM  "  RlQUET  OF   THE  TUFT  " 

Queen's  Song      .....  254 

Prince  Riquet's  Song     .        .        .  .  254 


254 
255 


256 
256 


256 
257 
257 


MARE  MEDITERRANEUM 

H,  W.  L 

Jranct0,  (Karl  0f  Eoaslpn 

BEDTIME 

MEMORY 


§>ir  letois  JHorrte 

AT  LAST 

SONG 

ON  A  THRUSH  SINGING  ix  AUTUMN 


(Gilbert  J)amertoit 

THE  SANYASSI 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN   . 


EoUen 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

SEA  SLUMBER-SONG 

DYING   ....... 

THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND  . 

LAMENT        ...... 

THE  TOY  CROSS      .... 

"THAT  THEY  ALL  MAY  BE  ONE  "  . 


Sir 

MEDITATIONS  OF  A  HINDU  PRINCE 

SUfreto  &ttfitm 

AT  His  GRAVE  (Hughenden,  May,  1881) 
SONGS  FROM  "PRINCE  LUCIFER" 

Grave-Digger's  Song 

Mother-Song 

AGATHA 

THE  HAYMAKERS'  SONG 


MARIAN 

PHANTOMS 

BY  THE  SALPETRIERE 

A  VISION  OF. CHILDREN. 

POETA  NASCITUR 


OTattd 


ODE  TO  MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKEN 

THE  SONNET'S  VOICE 

COLERIDGE        .        .        . 

THE  BREATH  OF  AVON     . 

THE  FIRST  Kiss      .... 

TOAST  TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


SDatofo 


THE  DEAR  OLD  TOILING  ONE 
I  DIE,  BEING  YOUNG 
MY  EPITAPH 


258 
259 


.  259 
260 

,  260 
261 

.  261 
262 

.  262 


263 

264 
265 
265 
265 


266 
266 
266 
267 
267 


267 
269 
269 
270 
270 
270 


271 

272 
272 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


xxvil 


272 

f  rctoeric  (MtUiam  |)enrp  $1] 

FROM  "  SAINT  PAUL  "... 

.  291 

Lux  EST  UMBRA  DEI             ... 

273 

.      292 

273 

ON  A  GRAVE  AT  GRINDELWALD 

.  292 

THE  FALL  OF  A  SOUL     .... 

274 
274 

A  LAST  APPEAL      .... 
IMMORTALITY       

.      292 
.  292 

IL  FIOR  I>EGLI  EROICI  FURORI     . 

274 
274 

A  LETTER  FROM  NEWPORT  . 

I  SAW,   I  SAW   THE  LOVELY  CHILD  . 

.      292 

.  L".*3 

275 

275 

(BfttDatti  *DolutJCtt 

RENUNCIANTS   

.      293 

Scanner  |a?  f  app 

97fi 

LEONARDO'S  "  MONNA  LISA  "  . 

.  294 
.      294 

276 

276 

;£tlatffarct  J9cUp 

277 

.  294 

Codiuo  ;£Honfel)ou6c 
SONG    .      .       .             •      •      •      • 

277 

JLaKp  Cttrrte 

(»•  VIOLET  FAN*  ") 

.      295 

278 

A  FOREBODING    .       .       .       .•      . 

.295 

THE  SECRET     

278 

IN  GREEN  OLD  GARDENS 

296 

•  ><  u; 

Eobcrt  33ttcl)anan 

THE  BALLAD  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT    . 
SPRING  SONG  IN  THE  CITY    . 
THE  WAKE  OF  TIM  O'HARA    . 

279 
281 
282 
283 

Samuel  OTatfoinffton 

THE  INN  OF  CARE  .... 
SOUL  AND  BODY  ...'.. 

.      297 
.  297 

ON  A  YOUNG  POETESS'S  GRAVE      •>•  u^ 

283 

.      297 

THE  SUMMER  POOL        .... 
WE  ARE  CHILDREN     
WHEN  WE  ARE  ALL  ASLEEP 
THE  DREAM  OF  THE  WORLD  WITHOUT 
DEATH  (from  "  The  Book  of  Orm  ") 
THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER 

283 

284 

284 

285 
288 

ETSI  OMNES,  EGO  NON 
44  THE  SEA-MAIDS'  Music"   . 

<J5eorffe  jFraiuia  S>abaffe=9lnn£( 

AUTUMN  MEMORIES    .•  ,    .1      . 

.  299 
.      299 

tronjr 

.  299 
.      299 

THE  CHURCHYARD      

289 

ONE  IN  THE  INFINITE 

.  300 
.      300 

<£milp  flfetffet 

A  SONG  OF  WINTER       .... 
To  A  MOTH  THAT   DRINKETH  OF  THE 

290 
oqn 

44  THE  FATHER  "         .... 

Mantes  Chapman  ffilooUfi 

.300 
.      301 

To  THE  HERALD  HONEYSUCKLE   . 

291 

THE  WORLD'S  DEATH-NIGHT  . 

.  301 

BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


iotttea  JHatattiup  Cratoforti 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN  .       .       . 


301 


THE  OLD  CAVALIER 

THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS 


302 


XXV111 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


William  JHaliepeace  C&acfcerap 

AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE      ....  303 
THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE  .        .      303 
THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM        .       .        .       .304 

THE  THREE  TROOPERS  .        .        .        . 
THE  WHITE  ROSE  OVER  THE  WATER 
THE  JACOBITE  ON  TOWER  HILL  . 
THE  DEATH  OF  MARLBOROUGH 
THE  OLD  GRENADIER'S  STORY     . 

321 
.  321 
322 
.  322 
322 

SORROWS  OF  WERTHER  .... 

305 

THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM 

.  305 

ejr    *        jj-i    .,    » 

THE  MAHOGANY  TREE  .... 

306 

jlopn  jyettco 

THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY    . 

.  306 

THE  LAIRD  OF  SCHELYNLAW    . 

.  323 

C&arlea  £)icfcen0 

^Testi  ^Tntrtlntai 

THE  IVY  GREEN         .... 

.  307 

J/VCMI   ^j  ti^vium 

Cljarlefi  fctngslep 

THE  HIGH   TIDE  ON   THE   COAST  OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE       

324 

FROM  "  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY  "  . 

308 

SAILING  BEYOND  SEAS 

.  326 

309 

THE  LONG  W^HITE  SEAM 

097 

THE  THREE  FISHERS      .... 

309 

sxt 

A  MYTH       
THE  DEAD  CHURCH        .... 
ANDROMEDA  AND   THE   SEA  -NYMPHS 

.  309 
309 

Eofcert  SDtoper  3Toj?ce 

CROSSING  THE  BLACKWATER     . 

.  327 

(from  "  Andromeda  ") 
THE  LAST  BUCCANEER  .... 

.  310 
310 

Cllen  ©'lear? 

LORRAINE     

311 

To  GOD  AND  IRELAND  TRUE 

qoo 

A  FAREWELL    

311 

uuBO 

SUelatoe  &nne  Procter 

Hamilton  &tte 

A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION 
A  DOUBTING  HEART       .... 
THE  REQUITAL     

.  312 
312 
,  313 
313 

REMEMBER  OR  FORGET 
THE  DANUBE  RIVER       .... 
WHEN  WE  ARE  PARTED    . 
THE  FORSAKEN        

.  328 
328 
.  329 
329 

PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM  .... 

£>ina&  JHaria  Jftttlocfe  Craifc 

3Tofl!ep&  Mipaep 

PHILIP,  MY  KING 

3-14 

MOTHER  WEPT     

329 

Too  LATE 

314 

THE  DEWDROP         

329 

THE  BUTTERFLY         .... 

.  330 

Carl  of  ls>autl)csk 

(Sis  JAMES  CABNEGIB) 

Bic&arfc  (ftarnett 

THE  FLITCH  OF  DUNMOW  . 
NOVEMBER'S  CADENCE    .... 

.  315 
315 

THE  ISLAND  OF  SHADOWS 
THE  FAIR  CIRCASSIAN 

330 
.  331 

JHortimer  Collins 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOAT  . 
THE  LYRICAL  POEM   .... 

331 
.  331 

A  GREEK  IDYL    . 

THE  DIDACTIC  POEM       .... 

331 

KATE  TEMPLE'S  SONG 

q-jc 

ON  AN  URN  

332 

THE  IVORY  GATE 

olo 
Qif! 

AGE    

332 

(Milliam  &lling!)am 

To  AMERICA       

o  332 

THE  FAIRIES    .... 

317 

2To|)n  QToIi^unter 

LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY 
THE  SAILOR      . 

.  317 
318 

THE  BANSHEE  

332 

A  DREAM      .        .        .        .'.'.' 

318 

10     «u±     or  t.      fir 

HALF-WAKING  . 

319 

JU.  5?t.  4JoI)u  (L-i>rtuoitt 

DAY  AND  NIGHT  SONGS     .       . 

.  319 

THE  GLORY  OF  MOTION 

.  333 

(Eeorffe  Walter  C&omlmrp 

Clement  S^eott 

THE  THREE  SCARS  . 

320 

334 

MELTING  OF  THE  EARL'S  PLATE 

.  320 

LILIAN  ADELAIDE  NEILSON 

.  334 

TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


XXIX 


&ara{) 

OMAR  AND  THE  PERSIAN     .    .    . 

&ir  Walter  35csant 

To  DAPHNE    ........ 


335 


336 


Latop  Ltnteap 


SONNET 

MY  HEART  is  A  LUTE 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


(L  Iiomaa  Norton  bafec 

OLD  SOULS 337 

THE  SIBYI 339 


Ctotoarti  f  tt^eralfc 

FROM  His  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  RUBAI- 
YAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

Overture t     V 

Paradise  Enow      . .        .        .        .        , 

The  Master-Knot        .... 

The  Phantom  Caravan  . 

The  Moving  Finger  writes 

And  yet  —  And  yet  I      .        .        .        , 


Kobert 


340 
340 
341 
341 
342 
342 


343 


SONG  FROM  "  PARACELSUS  "  . 
CAVALIER  TUNES 

1.  Marching  along          ....  343 

2.  Give  a  Rouse 344 

3.  Boot  and  Saddle        ....  344 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 344 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP     .       .  345 

IN  A  GONDOLA 346 

SONG  FROM  "  PIPPA  PASSES  "   .        .       .348 
"  How  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 

FROM  GHENT  TO  Aix"  ...  349 

THE  LOST  LEADER 350 

YOUTH  AND  ART 350 

HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD  .  .  351 

A  FACE 351 

*^DE  GUSTIBUS — " 352 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  His  TOMB  AT 

SAINT  PRAXED'S  CHURCH  ...  352 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 354 

PARTING  AT  MORNING  ....  354 

EVELYN  HOPE 354 

**  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER 

CAME" 355 

RESPECTABILITY 358 

MEMORABILIA 358 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 359 

ONK  WORD  MORE 359 

ABT  VOOLER 362 

PROSPICE 363 

MISCONCEPTIONS 364 


EPITAPH  (Levi  Lincoln  Thaxter) 
MUCKLE-MOUTH  MEG 
EPILOGUE  .       .       .      .«,,>» 


364 
364 


How 's  MY  BOY  ?       .       4 ,-.     ii      .-       .365 

A  NUPTIAL  EVE 366 

TOMMY  's  DEAD  .  .  367 


HOME  IN  WAR-TIME      .... 

AMERICA       ....... 

EPIGRAM  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD 

FORBES  ....... 

SEA  BALLAD  (from  "  Balder  ")  . 
DANTE,    SHAKESPEARE,    MILTON 

"Balder") 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  BROWNING 
FRAGMENT  OF  A  SLEEP-SONG       . 


(from 


FROM  "MODERN  LOVE" 

44  All  Other  Joys"          . 

Hiding  the  Skeleton   .. 

The  Coin  of  Pity    . 

One  Twilight  Hour     .. 
JUGGLING  JERRY     '   •'      •  ' 
THE  LARK  ASCENDING  .       • 
LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT      . 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  SHAKESPEARE 
THE  Two  MASKS 


368 


368 
368 


370 
370 


371 
371 
371 
371 
371 
373 
374 
374 
375 


A  DIRGE  FOR  SUMMER  . 
WHAT  THE  TRUMPETER  SAID 


375 
.  375 


Cbrtfittna  v5corg;ma  Ho00etti 

THE  UNSEEN  WORLD 

At  Home     ;       i       ;       .        .       .      37( 
Remember      ......  37H 

After  Death 376 

Wife  to  Husband 376 

Up-Hill 377 

"!T  is  FINISHED" 377 

FROM  "  MONNA  INNOMINATA  " 

Abnegation 378 

Trust      ....  .378 


XXX 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


FLUTTERED  WINGS  ....  378 
PASSING  AND  GLASSING  .  .  .  .378 
THE  THREAD  OF  LIFE  .  .  .  .379 
FROM  "LATER  LIFE" 

Sonnets  VI  and  IX        .        .        .        .379 
AN  ECHO  FROM  WILLOWWOOD      .       .      379 

TWIST  ME  A  CROWN 379 

GOOD-BY 380 

Bofcett,  Carl  of  Iptton 

("  OWEN  MEREDITH") 

INDIAN  LOVE-SONG 380 

Aux  ITALIENS 380 

THE  CHESS-BOARD     .  .382 


TEMPORA  ACTA  (from  "  Babylonia  ")  .  382 
THE  DINNER-HOUR  (from  "  Lucile  ")  .  383 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DEAD  LAMBS  .  383 
THE  UTMOST  ....  .384 


MELENCOLIA  (from  "  The  City  of  Dread 
ful  Night")    385 

LIFE'S  HEBE .386 

FROM  "  HE  HEARD  HER  SING  "    .       .387 

Harriet  (Eleanor  Hamilton  &in# 

PALERMO  (from  "  The  Disciples  ")     .        .  388 
THE  CROCUS 389 


POETS  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Jortr 


Proton 


FOR  THE   PICTURE,  "THE    LAST  OF 
ENGIAND  "    ...... 

O.  M.  B 


f  ofiepi  Boei 

REQUIEM  .......      390 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  EURYDICE  .  .  391 


Woolner 


MY  BEAUTIFUL  LA*DY-    ....      391 
GIVEN  OVER  .  392 


SDante  (Gabriel 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL         .       .       .392 

THE  PORTRAIT 394 

FROM  "  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE  :  A  SON 
NET-SEQUENCE  " 

Introductory 395 

Lovesight 395 

Her  Gifts 395 

The  Dark  Glass 396 

Without  Her 3% 

Broken  Music 396 

Inclusiveness 396 

A  Superscription  .  397 

SONNETS  ON  PICTURES 

A  Venetian  Pastoral  .        .        .        .397 

Mary  Magdalene 397 

SUDDEN  LIGHT 397 

THE  WOODSPURGE 398 

THE  SEA-LIMITS  398 


A  LITTLE  WHILE 398 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES     .       .      398 

Htt&arK  SUlatann  £)tj:on 

ODE  ON  CONFLICTING  CLAIMS   .       .       .399 

HUMANITY 400 

FROM  "MANO:  A  POETICAL  HISTORY" 

The  Skylark 400 

Of  a  Vision  of  Hell,  which  a  Monk 

had 400 

Of  Temperance  in  Fortune    .        .        .  401 


THE  GILLYFLOWER  OF  GOLD        .       .      402 

SHAMEFUL  DEATH 403 

THE  BLUE  CLOSET 403 

FROM  "  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE  " 

The  Singer's  Prelude     .        .        .        .404 
Atalanta's  Victory      ....      405 

Atalanta's  Defeat 407 

The  King's  Visit         ....      408 

Song  :  To  Psyche 409 

A  Land  across  the  Sea        .        .        .      409 
Antiphony       ......  410 

FROM  "SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG" 

Of  the  Passing  Away  of  Brynhild     .      410 
The  Burghers'  Battle    .        .        .        .413 

A  Death  Song 413 

lotto  ?De  Cafclcp 

(JOHN  LEICESTER  WARREN) 


A  WOODLAND  GRAVE 
A  SIMPLE  MAID 


414 
415 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


xxxi 


FORTUNE'S  WHEEL 

ClKCE 

A  SONG  OF  FAITH  FORSWORN 
THE  Two  OLD  KINGS     .. 


IK  MATCH      ....... 

HKSPKKIA  ....... 

Kr  MEMORY  OF  WALTER  SAVAGE  LAN- 
DOR    ....... 

LOVK  AT  SEA  ...... 

FROM  "  ROSAMOND  "  . 

FROM  "  ATALANTA  IN  CALYDON  " 
Wlien  the  Hounds  of  Spring 
We  have  seen  Thee,  O  Love          .        , 

FROM  "CHASTELARD"    .... 

FROM  "  BOTH  WELL  "  , 

SAI-J-HO  (from  "On  the  Cliffs  ") 

HOPE  AND  FEAR  .       , 

ON  THE  DEATHS  OF  THOMAS  CARLYLK 
f  AND  GEORGE  ELIOT     .       .    t  •'••/• 

HERTHA        ...... 

ETUDE  REALISTE     ..... 
•^THE  ROUNDEL     ..... 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN    .... 

ON  THE  MONUMENT  ERECTED  TO  MAZ- 
ZINI  AT  GENOA        .  ...  .    .,.« 


CADENCES 
SIBYL     . 
THOROERDA 
MOVE'S  AUTUMN 
SONGS'  END      . 


415 
415 
416 
417 


417 
417 

419 
420 
420 

421 
422 
422 
425 
427 
428 

428 
428 
431 
431 
432 

433 


434 
434 
435 
435 
436 


Eofaert 

POOR  WITHERED  ROSE 

I  WILL  NOT  LET  THEE  GO     .        , 

UPON  THE  SHOKB 

A  PASSER-BY  . 

ELEGY  

THOU  DIDST  DELIGHT  MY  EYES      , 

AWAKE,  MY  HEART  ! 
O  YOUTH  WHOSE  HOPE  is  HIGH 
So  SWEET  LOVE  SEEMED  . 
ASIAN  BIRDS     , 


437 
437 
437 
438 
438 
438 
439 
439 
400 
439 


THE  FAIR  MAID  AND  THE  SUN  .  .  440 
HAS  SUMMER  COME  WITHOUT  THE  ROSE  ?  441 

AT  HER  GRAVE 441 

SILENCES  .  .'•'.»'.  .  441 
IF  SHE  BUT  KNEW  •  ;  442 

Pltltp  -BourUr  ittaroton 

A  GREETING     .       .     .  A       .       .       .442 
A  VAIN  WISH      .       .       .       .       .       .442 

LOVE'S  Music  .        .        ....      442 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  WIND  .  .  .443 
How  MY  SONG  OF  HER  BEGAN  .  .  444 
THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD  OF  BONCHURCH  444 
GARDEN  FAIRIES  .  .  .  .  .  444 

LOVE  AND  Music 445 

No  DEATH 445 

AT  THE  LAST  .        .       .       .       .        .      446 

HER  PITY 446 

AFTER  SUMMER 446 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY  .  .  .  447 
IF  You  WERE  HERE  ....  447 
AT  LAST  .  .  .447 


I  Com  GTaplor 

M  "  THE  FOOL'S  REVENGE  " 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN         .. 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 

|)erman 


Meatlanfc  iHareton 

FROM  "  MARIE  DE  MERANIE  " 

ollilliam  <0orman  ffiUll* 

CROMWELL  AND  HENRIETTA  MARIA 
(from  "  Charles  the  First  ")  . 

CTUUiam  &c!)tocncfe  Gilbert 

FROM  "  PYGMALION  AND  GALATEA" 


448 
450 


452 


455 


457 


XLX    . 
READY,  AY,  READY 
THAISA'S  DIRGE 


461 
461 

462 


dilUbotcr 


SONGS  FROM  DRAMAS 

News  to  the  King          .        .        .        .462 

'Tween  Earth  and  Sky       ...      462 
Day  is  Dead    ......  463 

Tell  Me  not  of  Morrows,  Sweet         .      463 

THE  DEATHS  OF  MYRON  AND  KLY- 
DONB  (from  "  In  a  Day  ">        .        .        .463 


XXX11 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


ELEGANT!^ 


Jrefiertcfc  Locfecr^iampson 

(FREDERICK  LOCKEB) 

To  MY  GRANDMOTHBK  ....      465 

THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 466 

ON  AN  OLD  MUFF  ....      466 

To  MY  MISTRESS 467 

THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUPBOARD      .      467 

Hofarrt  -Barnabas  3Srottgf) 

MY  LORD  TOMNODDY         .       .       .       .468 

C-barlcfi  Stuart  Calterlep 

COMPANIONS 469 

BALLAD 469 

ON  THE  BRINK 470 


A  MARLOW  MADRIGAL 

A  PORTRAIT     . 

THE  LITTLE  REBEL    . 


iSEtlltam  Join  Cottrt&ape 

FROM  "  THE  PARADISE  OF  BIRDS  " 
Birdcatcher's  Song 
Ode  — To  the  Roc 
In  Praise  of  Gilbert  White 

&it  jFreUencfc  |)  olio  tit 

THE  Six  CARPENTERS'  CASE    . 


.471 

471 
.  472 


472 
472 
473 


474 


"THE  LAND  OF  WONDER-WANDER" 


(Efitoartt  lear 


THE  JUMBLIES 


475 


muitam  3Srig!)tp  Banto 

TOPSY-TURVY  WORLD           .       .       .476 
POLLY 476 


DRESSING  THE  DOLL 
I  SAW  A  NEW  WORLD 


477 

.  477 


Claries  ittttoftge  3Dotyj;0on 

("LEWIS  CABEOLL"). 

JABBERWOCKY 478 

FROM  "  THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  SNARK  "  478 

OF  ALICE  IN  WONDERLAND  .       .  479 


III.    CLOSE   OF  THE   ERA 

(INTERMEDIARY  PERIOD) 
RECENT  POETS  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


Austin  Ootaon 


A  DEAD  LETTER 

A  RONDEAU  TO  ETHEL  . 

14  WITH  PIPE  AND  FLUTE  " 

A  GAGE  D'AMOUR   . 

THE  CRADLE 

THE  FORGOTTEN  GRAVE 

THE  CURE'S  PROGRESS 

''  GOOD-NIGHT,  BABETTE  " 

DN  A  FAN 


.483 
.  .  484 

.  485 
.  485 

.  486 
.  486 

.  486 
.  486 

.  487 
'ONAVis"  ....  488 


"0  FONS  BANDUSLE" 

FOR  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS        . 

To  A  GREEK  GIRL      .... 

ARS  VICTRIX 

THE  LADIES  OF  ST.  JAMES'S    .       . 
A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE      .       .       . 
44 IN  AFTER  DAYS"    . 

SSRilfrtU  &catoen  4Sltmt 

To  MANON  —  COMPARING  HER  TO  A 
FALCON  


488 
488 
488 
489 
489 
490 
491 


491 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


XXXlll 


To    THE    SAME  —  ON    HER    LIQHT- 
HEAKTEDNESS    ......  491 

LAUGHTEU  AND  DEATH  ....      491 


THE  OLD  SQUIRE 


492 


frank  <ZC. 


DEATH  AS  THE  TEACHER  OF  LOVE- 
LORE      .       .        .       ...       .493 

DEATH  AS  THE  FOOL         .   '   .       .       .493 
TWO  SONNET-SONGS 

1.  The  Sirens  sing       .        .        .        .493 

2.  Orpheus  and  the  Mariners  make 
Answer  .        .        .493 


Cotterell 


AN  AUTUMN  FLITTING 
IN  THE  TWILIGHT 


494 
.  495 


&nfcreto  Lang; 
BALLADES 

To  Theocritus,  in  Winter  ...      495 
Of  the  Book-Hunter      .        .'      .        .496 
Of  Blue  China  .    •    .        .        .496 

Of  Life  .......  496 

Of  his  Choice  of  a  Sepulchre     .        .      497 
ROMANCE      .       .       .       j.       .       .       .497 

THE  ODYSSEY  ......      497 

SAN  TERENZO      .       .     .  ftt^,      •       -497 
SCYTHE  SONG    .       .....     498 

MELVILLE  AND  COGHILL    .    „,*•**•>       •  498 
PARAPHRASES 

Erinna          .        »     ^  .  ,n1w/j  .        .      498 
Telling  the  Bees  .        .        .        .498 

Heliodore  Dead      '"'.".        .        .      498 
A  SCOT  TO  JEANNE  D'ARC        .       .       .  499 
THREE  PORTRAITS  OF  PRINCE  CHARLES  499 
-<Esop    .....     .  .    "  '.       .499 

ON  CALAIS  SANDS    .       .       Wn.^^     •     50° 

William  Canton 

KARMA  .  .....  500 

LAUS  INFANTIUM     .....      501 

A  NEW  POET       ......  501 


J)artlep 


To  A  DAISY 


501 


8lejcanfcer  ftntoenson 

CUDDLE  DOON  .  502 


€milp  Henrietta  |)ietep 

A  SEA  STORY 502 

BELOVED,  IT  is  MORN         .       .       .       .503 

Walter  Crane 

A  SEAT  FOR  THREE       ....     503 
ACROSS  THE  FIELDS 503 

Cttffene  Lrr  bnmtlton 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH   TO   A   CAGED 

LINNET 604 

IZAAK  WALTON  TO  RIVER  AND  BROOK  .  504 
CHARLES  II  OF  SPAIN  TO  APPROACH 
ING  DEATH 504 

To  MY  TORTOISE  CHRONOS      .       .       .504 
SUNKEN  GOLD      ......    T*<  iv.     505 

SEA-SHELL  MURMURS         .       .       .       .606 

A  FLIGHT  FROM  GLORY         ...     606 
WHAT  THE  SONNET  is       .        .        .       .505 

ON  HIS  "SONNETS  OF  THE  WINGLESS 
HOURS  "  .     606 


(0rabe0 

THE  WHITE  BLOSSOM  's  OFF  THE  BOG    .  506 

frrtjcnfea  IlicbnrUcon  iHacUonalU 
NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  —  MIDNIGHT    .       .     606 


THE  DEAD  CHILD  .  .  l7*a  A'  .507 
IF  ONLY  THOU  ART  TRUE  .  .  .  507 
THE  OLD  MAID  ......  507 


JreHertc 


iOTeat&erlp 


LONDON  BRIDGE     .....     508 

NANCY  LEE  .        ......  608 

A  BIRD  IN  THE  HAND   ....     609 

DOUGLAS  GORDON       .....  609 

DARBY  AND  JOAN    .....     510 

Catherine  C.  LUftell 


511 
511 


LYING  IN  THE  GRASS         ....  511 
ON  A  LUTE  FOUND  IN  A  SARCOPHAGUS     512 

THE  PIPE-PLAYER 513 

HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSKN,  1805-1875     513 


(C.  C. 

JESUS  THE  CARPENTER 
THE  POET  IN  THE  CITY  . 


XXXIV 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


DE  Rosis  HIBERNIS        .... 
THEOCRITUS         
WITH  A  COPY  OF  HERRICK    . 
THE  VOICE  OF  D.  G.  R.    . 

513 
.  514 
514 
.  514 

3fof)ft  £lrt|)tir  (Sooljcljtlft 

SCHONE  ROTHRAUT     .... 

.  527 

A  PARABLE  OF  THE  SPIRIT 

(Erie  Jftackap 

THE  WAKING  OF  THE  LARK     . 
MARY  ARDEN  

528 

.  529 
530 

SONG  FOR  Music      
A  PASTORAL        

514 
.  515 

TWICKENHAM  FERRY      .... 
MAY  MARGARET         .... 
LAST  NIGHT      

515 
.  516 
516 
.  516 

IN  TUSCANY 

.  531 
532 

.  532 
532 
.  532 

533 
533 

jF.  (Mpfcille  f)ome 

AN  ENGLISH  GIRL      .... 
DOVER  CLIFF  

CARPE  DIEM        

SSRalter  J)errieg  Pollock 

BELOW  THE  HEIGHTS     .... 

516 
.  517 

IN  A  SEPTEMBER  NIGHT   . 

f  rancia  WUlliam  38ottrtrillon 

EURYDICE  

FATHER  FRANCIS     ..... 

Jftic&ael  JtclK 

FROM  "  CANUTE  THE  GREAT  "  . 
THE  BURIAL  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  . 
WIND  OF  SUMMER      .... 
THE  DANCERS          
LETTICE        
EARTH  TO  EARTH    
AN  vEouAN  HARP     .... 
IRIS    ...... 

517 

.  517 
519 
.  520 
520 
.  520 
521 
.  521 
521 

.  522 

522 

A  VIOLINIST        

OLD  AND  YOUNG      
THE  NIGHT  HAS  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

J)eriert  eutotn  Clarke 

IN  THE  WOOD     

533 
.  533 

.  533 

A  CRY       

534 
.  534 

THE  AGE     

lafcp  Charlotte  (Elliot 

THE  WIFE  OF  LOKI       .... 

(Militant  Barnes  SDatoson 

A  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT  .... 
BIRD'S  SONG  AT  MORNING 
IDEAL  MEMORY    

535 

,  535 
535 
.  536 

FROM  "  A  LOVE-TRILOGY  "      . 
THE  DEAD        

FROM  "  LOVE  IN  EXILE  " 

Eofaert  Louts  §>teben0on 

PIRATE  STORY         

.  522 

523 
.  523 

To  A  DESOLATE  FRIEND 
THE  ANGEL  AT  THE  FORD 

Jrancea  JJaabel  Jhrnell 

AFTER  DEATH         

SUice  ;ptejHiell 

THE  MODERN  POET    .... 
SONG  
CHANGELESS         
RENOUNCEMENT       
SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT  AT  DAYBREAK 

flaken&am  Eeattp 

CHARLES  LAMB 

536 
.  537 

537 

.  538 
538 
.  538 
539 
.  539 

539 

.  539 

FOREIGN  LANDS  

THE  LAND  OF  COUNTERPANE 
THE  LAND  OF  NOD     .... 
IN  THE  SEASON        
To  N.  V.  DE  G.  S  

523 
.  524 
524 
.  524 

IN  THE  STATES         
THE  SPAEWIFE    

524 
525 

HEATHER  ALE  :  A  GALLOWAY  LEGEND 
THE  WHAUPS  —  To  S.  R.  C.     . 
REQUIEM   

525 
.  526 
526 

.  526 
527 
.  527 

<S5leeaon  SMfctte 

A  BALLADE  OF  PLAYING  CARDS 
SUFFICIENCY     

THE  DEATH  OF  HAMPDEN 

TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


XXXV 


©Itoer 


BEFORE  AND  AFTEK 
LAURA'S  SONG 


541 
541 


541 
542 
542 


542 
544 


SPRING'S  IMMORTALITY  ....      545 

AT  THE   GRAVE  OF   DANTE    GABRIEL 
ROSSETTI   .......  545 

AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON      .       .       .      545 


(Efctoar*  Cracroft  5Lcfrop 

A  SHEPHERD  MAIDEN    ... 

A  SICILIAN  NIOHT 

A  FOOTBALL-PLAYER     ... 

Jflap  JJrofapn 

THE  BEES  OF  MYDDELTON  MANOR 
"  Is  IT  NOTHING  TO  You  ?  "     .       . 


(ZTont  SDutt 

OUR  CASUARINA  TREE       . 


.545 


THE  LAST  ABORIGINAL  ....      546 

THE  COVES  OF  CRAIL        .       .       .       .547 

THE  ISLE  OF  LOST  DREAMS  ...      547 
THE  DEATH-CHILD     .....  547 

FROM  "SOSPIRI  DI  ROMA" 

Susurro        ......      548 

Red  Poppies  '.        '.        ...  548 

The  White  Peacock  ....      548 

SONG      ........  549 

Oscar  GHUifte 

AVE  IMPERATRIX     .....      549 

iS.  o  ol.  j^laDcn 

A  CHRISTMAS  LETTER  FROM  AUSTRALIA  551 
SUNSET  ON   THE   CUNIMBLA   VALLEY, 
BLUE  MOUNTAINS         .       .       ..552 

THE  TROPICS        ......  552 

FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF  "  CHARLES  II  ".      552 
BALOPIA  INHOSPITALIS       .        .        .        .552 

henry  Charles  -Brrcbtnj 

A  SUMMER  DAY       .....     553 

To  MY  TOTEM     .       .....  553 

KNOWLEDGE  AFTER  DEATH  ...     554 
PRAYERS       .  .554 


AN  ETRUSCAN  RING 


5.  iS.  &  .Hicbols 

LINES  BY  A  PERSON  OF  QUALITY 
A  PASTORAL 


£>armestettr 


(A.  MART  F.  ROBINSON) 

DAWN-ANGELS    .       1""    *.       .       . 
COCKAYNE  COUNTRY  •    .   •    .  •    .  * 
CELIA'S  HOME-COMING 
FROM  "  TUSCAN  CYPRESS  "  (Rispetti) 
ROSA  ROSARUM    ..... 
DARWINISM       ..... 
A  BALLAD  OF  ORLEANS,  1429  . 


3Jobn 


HARVEST-HOME  SONG 
A  BALLAD  OF  HEAVEN 
LONDON 


555 


556 
556 
556 
557 
557 
657 
558 


558 


LOVE  AND  DEATH    .....     560 
SISTER  MARY  OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD       .  560 


Elan* 

BALLAD  OF  A  BRIDAL  V?M  ;<l  '    .       .     661 

Constance  C  .  W 

THE  PANTHEIST'S  SONG  OF  IMMORTAL 
ITY     .....       ...  662 


Eennell  Hot* 

A  ROMAN  MIRROR  .....     663 

ACTEA   ........  664 

IMPERATOR  AUGUSTUS    ....     664 

THE  DAISY  .......  664 

44  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD"  -.       t"     .       .     664 
THEN  AND  Now  ......  664 

ffilltam  Watson 


EPIGRAMS 

To  a  Seabird  . 

The  Play  of44  King  Lear" 

Byron  the  Voluptuary  . 

On  Diirer'8  MelencoQa 

Exit 


665 
665 
665 
566 


XXXVI 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


LACHRYM^:    MUSARUM    (6th    October, 
1892)        

565 
567 

568 

568 
569 

569 
569 
569 

569 
570 
570 

571 
571 
572 

572 
573 
574 
574 
574 
574 

575 

575 
576 
576 
576 
577 

577 
578 
578 
578  • 

Simp  iLetop 

A  LONDON  PLANE-TREE 
BETWEEN  THE  SHOWERS  . 
IN  THE  MILE  END  ROAD       .       .       . 
To  VERNON  LEE        .... 

(Elizabeth  Craigmple 

SOLWAY  SANDS        

€rnest  Bhpe 

579 
0  579 
579 
.  579 

579 

.  580 

THE  FIRST  SKYLARK  OF  SPRING 
SONG  IN  IMITATION  OF  THE  ELIZABETH- 

&rthur  BeeU  Bopes 

ON  THE  BRIDGE       

3fohn  Arthur  $laifcie 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY       .... 
DIANA   

581 
.  581 

LOVE'S  SECRET  NAME       .       .       .       . 

jFrancte  Chompflon 

To  A  POET  BREAKING  SILENCE    . 

BRECHVA'S  HARP  SONG  .... 

581 

.  582 

SONG  OF  THE  WULFSHAW  LARCHES 

Arthur  Christopher  38en0on 

582 
.  582 

3ame0  Kenneth  Stephen 

LAPSUS  CALAMI  —  To  R.  K.     . 

583 
.  583 
583 

.  584 
584 
584 
.  585 
585 
.  585 

AN  ENGLISH  SHELL    .... 
AFTER  CONSTRUING        .... 

jBorman  (0ale 

SONG  —  "  THIS  PEACH  is  PINK  "      . 
SONG  —  "  WAIT  BUT  A  LITTLE  WHILE  " 
A  PRIEST  
THE  COUNTRY  FAITH 
A  DEAD  FRIEND      
CONTENT       

A  SONNET    

BofiamtmU  ^Harriott  (fflateon 

("GBAHAM  R.  TOMSON") 

LE  MAUVAIS  LARRON     .... 
DEID  FOLKS'  FERRY  

THE  FARM  ON  THE  LINKS 

TV»    "VT-w    P  A  m 

THE  FIRST  Kiss      

585 
.  586 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE           .          .          .          .     "     . 

li^^ie  JH»  little 

DAWN  AND  DARK    .       .       .       .       . 

a.  (£.  <®ttiller'-Cottch 

THE  SPLENDID  SPUR  .... 
THE  WHITE  MOTH  ..... 

A  CURLEW'S  CALL      .... 

S>eltopn  3^ma^e 

THE  PROTESTATION         .... 

586 

.  586 

587 

.  587 

590 
.  591 

Katharine  Cpnan  IMnfcson 

SHEEP  AND  LAMBS     
DE  PROFUNDIS 
SINGING  STARS     .       ,       .       .       . 
THE  SAD  MOTHER  
THE  DEAD  COACH       

JHap  Kendall 

A  PURE  HYPOTHESIS      .... 
A  BOARD  SCHOOL  PASTORAL     . 

HER  CONFIRMATION      .         ... 

|)erfrert  $.  |)0rne 

591 
.  591 

THE  PAGE  OF  LANCELOT  . 

FORMOSAE  PUELLAE           .... 

591 

TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


xxxvii 


592 

THE  FOLK  OF  THE  AIR 

.  604 

**  IF  SHE  BE  MADE  OF  WHITE  AND  RED" 

592 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLD  MOTHER. 

605 

iflarsarct  L.  TOoote 

(0eorge  d.Gltlliam  Lltioocll 

REgT                             

592 

("A.E.") 

To  THE  FORGOTTEN  DEAD    . 

592 

SELF-DISCIPLINE         .... 

.  605 

593 

KKISHNA 

605 

THE  GREAT  BREATH  .... 

.  606 

UtcbartJ  Lr  <J3alltrnnc 

THE  MAN  TO  THE  ANGEL     .       .       . 

OM                              ,-i'i'i  ".  -;><!  ya< 

606 
606 

IMMORTALITY    .       .      ,4  .-.,..,  Vv"« 

606 

ORBITS      

593 

LOVE'S  POOR       ...... 

593 

593 

0r  hrfiTrnrr  ffnTrntiKlnVii 

Tin    \VONDER~CHILD.       .        .       V^.13 

594 

VI,  IJlUUUll      V^  v,l  I  (1  1  1  0  Itl  UJ 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  SONG      .... 

594 

THE  MUSIC-HALL       .... 

607 

THE  PASSIONATE  READER  TO  HIS  POET 

594 

BO! 

607 

EaUparU  Uiplmg; 

JHarp  C.  (9.  ^Spron 

DANNY  DEEVER      

595 

r  f* 

**  FUZZY-WUZZY  "       

595 

(M.    C.    GlLLINQTON) 

THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

596 

THE  TRYST  OF  THE  NIGHT    . 

607 

THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  WORKSHOPS  . 

598 

THE  FAIRY  THRALL  .  a  i'"  5. 

.  608 

THE  LAW  OF  THE  JUNGLE  .         .  .    ^ 

599 

THE  LAST  CHANTEY  .        .       .      ".'"    . 

600 

3ltcc  €.  i^tlltncrton 

Arthur  &pmon0 

THE  SEVEN  WHISTLERS  .... 

608 

AT  FONTAINEBLEAU           .          .          .          . 

JAVANESE  DANCERS    ..... 

601 
601 

THE  ROSY  MUSK-MALLOW 
THE  DOOM-BAB      

.  609 
609 

DURING  Music         <;••"•£:. 

601 

601 

^oi'ci  *^icrrrDon 

Collie  UatJforti 

ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT     .,     ^      .    J. 

.  610 

IF  ALL  THE  WORLD       .... 

602 

Pcrcp  3tUUlr0I)atu 

602 

MY  LITTLE  DEAR    

602 

("PEBCY  HEMINGWAY") 

A  MODEL      .       .       .      -,      ,  , 
OCTOBER    v*   . 

602 
603 

THE  HAPPY  WANDERER        .       .       . 
TRAVELLERS  .       .           ,  »L   •.•-••• 

611 
.  611 

IT  MAY  BE        

611 

William  Sutler  Prats 

(Dlttir  Cuetancr 

AN  INDIAN  SONQ        .,      ..  ^.       . 

603 

AN  OLD  SONG  RESUNO    .... 

604 

THE  WAKING  OF  SPRING  .    '^;r;1v  ; 

.  611 

THK  ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD       .       .       . 

604 

612 

THE  WHITE  BIRDS  . 

604 

THE  PARTING  HOUR  . 

612 

XXXV111 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


IV.    COLONIAL   POETS 

(INDIA  —  AUSTRALASIA  —  DOMINION  OF  CANADA) 

INDIA 

See  TORU  DUTT,  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  in  the  preceding  division  of  this  Anthology.  See  also,  in 
the  second  division,  SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD,  SIR  ALFRED  LYALL,/^J  of  English  birth,  and 
sometime  resident  in  India 


HOW  WE  BEAT  THE  FAVORITE 

THE  SICK  STOCK-RIDER    . 
VALEDICTORY 


£runton 
THE  DOMINION  OF  AUSTRALIA 


617 
619 
621 


621 


FORBY  SUTHERLAND       .       .       .       .622 

]!)enrj>  Clarence  lienttall 

To  A  MOUNTAIN  ......  624 

COOGEE     ......  625 


SEPTEMBER  IN  AUSTRALIA 
THE  LAST  OF  His  TRIBE 
THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WILD  OAK 


AUSTRALASIA 
(See  also:  A.  DOMETT,  R.  H.  HORNE,  W.  SHARP,  D.  B.  W.  SLADEN) 

JJercp  Ktutfell 

THE  BIRTH  OF  AUSTRALIA    .       .       .615 

C&atlea  J>aqmr  fl^'P  J*  &mnett 

A  MIDSUMMER'S  NOON  IN  THE  Aus-  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WlLD  STORM-WAVES 

TRALIAN  FOREST 615 

AN  ABORIGINAL  MOTHER'S  LAMENT    .      616 

Bobert  lotoe 

(VISCOUNT  SHEBBBOOKE) 
SONG  OF  THE  SQUATTER    .       .       .       .616 


626 


THE  WAIF 


Jrancea  Cprrell  <0tU 

BENEATH  THE  WATTLE  BOUGHS* 


THE  DIGGER'S  GRAVE    . 

&tt|)ut  JJatcfjett  Jftartm 

LOVE  AND  WAR  ..... 

THE  CYNIC  OF  THE  WOODS  . 


Casttlla 

AN  AUSTRALIAN  GIRL 

(Eleanor 

A  NEW  ZEALAND  REGRET 
ADIEU    .  ... 


.  630 


631 
631 


682 


632 
633 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


XXXIX 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


Susanna  &trirfelanfc  jftoofcie 

CANADIAN  HUNTER'S  SONO   ...      633 


.  634 


635 

637 


C  bavin*  Catuoon 
THE  WALKER  OF  THE  SNOW    . 

CbarlrG  hcamwcje 

SCENES  FROM  "SAUL"          £ 
TWILIGHT     ..... 


FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF  "  DE  ROBERVAL  "     638 
BRAWN  OF  ENGLAND'S  LAY  ...     641 


vTbavlrc  iHatr 
FROM  "  TECUMSEH  :  A  DRAMA 


.641 


.  logan 

("  BARRY  DANK  ") 

THE  NOR'-WEST  COURIER     ...     643 
A  BLOOD-RED  RING  HUNG  ROUND  THE 
MOON         .......  643 

A  DEAD  SINGER      .       .       .       .       .644 


.  644 
646 


645 
646 
646 


To  A  HUMMING  BIRD  IN  A  GARDEN 
A  LESSON  OF  MERCY     .... 

jFrefcericfc  Cameron 

THE  GOLDEN  TEXT 

STANDING  ON  TIPTOE     .... 

WHAT  MATTERS  IT 


Jaabella  Balance?  Cratoforto 

THE  CANOE       ......      646 

THE  AXE      .......  647 

(Jultlltam  SDouto  ^rbiti'lcr  Liffbt&all 

THE  CONFUSED  DAWN    ....  648 

PR*TERITA  EX  INSTANTIBUS     .       .  .648 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LA  PRAIRIE       .       .  648 

MONTREAL    .....  .649 


C&atlea  <8.  3D.  Bobette 


f   *  .  ,  ...       . 


.649 
650 


CANADA        *,- 

THE  ISLES 

BURNT  LANDS 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GEESE  .       j       .     600 

THE  NIGHT  SKY  ......  661 

THE  DESERTED  CITY      .       .       .       .651 

AUTOCHTHON     .-  ,  .651 

MARSYAS  .    »  JfttylB»3   BfAnO!    .      ^ 

EPITAPH  FOR  A  SAILOR  BURIED  ASHORK  652 
THE  KEEPERS  OF  THE  PASS     .       .       .652 
THE  BIRD'S  SONG,  THE  SUN,  AND  THB 
WIND      .        .        .        .        .        .        .      663 

AFOOT  .       •       .       .       .  ^;j^.<i,i'i  .     .  663 

DOMINE,   CUI  SUNT  PLEIADES    CuRAE    .        663 

William  Wilfreft  Campbell 

To  THE  LAKES    ......  654 

A  CANADIAN  FOLK-SONO       ...     654 
A  LAKE  MEMORY       .....  655 

THE  WERE-  WOLVES       ....     665 


jFreUericfe 


KNOWLEDGE        ......  656 

TIME  .        .       V     *.       .       .       .       V     656 

SAMSON         .......  656 

VAN  ELSEN       ......     657 

AD  MAJOREM  DEI  GLORIAM  .  658 


Uofacrtg 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  BIRCH  . 


Lampman 


HEAT 

BETWEEN  THE  RAPIDS   .       .       . 

A  FORECAST 

THE  LOONS 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  END  OF  THINGS. 

-Bites  Carman 


.  660 

661 

.  661 


MARIAN  DRURY       .       .       . 
A  SEA  CHILD       .       .     * . 
GOLDEN  ROWAN      .       •       . 
SPRING  SONG       .       .       . 
A  MORE  ANCIENT  MARINER  . 


663 
664 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


A  WlNDFLOWER  . 

THE  MENDICANTS 
SONG      . 
HACK  AND  HEW 
ENVOY  . 


&«  Frances  garrison 

("  SKBANUS  ") 

CHATEAU  PAPINEAU 
SEPTEMBER 


SDtmcan  Campbell 

ABOVE  ST.  IRENEE  ... 

A  LITTLE  SONG 

AT  LES  EBOULEMENTS  . 

OTTAWA 

AT  THE  CEDARS      ... 

IN  NOVEMBER 

THE  REED-PLAYER         .       . 

LIFE  AND  DEATH       .. 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  . 


665 
665 
666 
666 
666 


667 
668 


668 


670 
670 
671 
671 


filbert 

SONNETS  FROM  "A  LOVER'S  DIARY 
Love's  Outset 

A  Woman's  Hand        ... 
Art 

Invincible 
Envoy 


<£.  Jhttline 

THE  SONG  MY  PADDLE  SINGS 
AT  HUSKING  TIME 
THE  VAGABONDS 


»etr 


SNOWSHOEING  SONG 


THE  WIND  OF  DEATH    . 
THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  TREES 
THE  SNOW  STORM 
To  FEBRUARY 


671 
672 
672 
673 
673 


673 
674 
674 


674 


675 
675 
676 
676 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 
INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 
INDEX  OF  TITLES  .. 
INDEX  OF  POETS 


679 
713 

727 
741 


EARLY  YEARS  OF  THE   REIGN 

(TRANSITION   PERIOD) 

CLOSE   OF  SOUTHEY'S  LAUREATESHIP :  1837-43 
LAUREATESHIP  OF   WORDSWORTH:  1843-50 

Accession  of  Victoria  R.,  June  20,  z8jf 


THE   PASSING  OF  THE   ELDER  BARDS 
FROM  THE  "EXTEMPORE  EFFUSION  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  JAMES  HOGG" 

THE  mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
Mid  mouldering-  ruins  low  he  lies ; 
And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow 
Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes : 

Nor  has  the  rolling-  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign,  its  steadfast  course, 
Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source ; 

The  'rapt  One,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 
The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth : 
And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land ! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  ?  " 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

November,  1835. 


EARLY   YEARS   OF   THE    REIGN 

(TRANSITION   PERIOD) 

DISTINCTIVE  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS 


IDaltcr 


OVERTURE 

FROM   "THRASYMEDES   AND  EUNOE  " 

rHO  will  away  to  Athens  with  me  ?  who 
>ves  choral   songs   and  maidens  crown'd 

with  flowers, 
Unenvious  ?  mount  the  pinnace  ;  hoist  the 

sail. 

I  promise  ye,  as  many  as  are  here, 
Ye  shall  not,  while  ye  tarry  with  me,  taste 
From  unrins'd  barrel  the  diluted  wine 
Of  a  low  vineyard  or  a  plant  ill  prun'd, 
But  such  as  anciently  the  ^Egeau  isles 
Pour'd  in  libation  at  their  solemn  feasts  : 
And    the   same   goblets    shall    ye    grasp, 

emboss'd 

With  no  vile  figures  of  loose  languid  boors, 
But  such  as  gods  have  liv'd  with  and  have 

led. 


THE  HAMADRYAD 

BHAICOS  was  born  amid  the  hills  where- 

from 

Gnidos  the  light  of  Caria  is  discerned, 
And  small  are  the  white-crested  that  play 

near, 

And  smaller  onward  are  the  purple  waves. 
Thence  festal  choirs  were  visible,  all  crown'd 
With  rose  and  myrtle  if  they  were  inborn  ; 
[f  from  Pandion  sprang  they,  on  the  coast 
Where  stern  Athene  rais'd  her  citadel, 


UanDor 


Then  olive  was  entwin'd  with  violets 
Cluster'd  in  bosses,  regular  and  large  ; 
For  various  men  wore  various  coronals, 
But  one  was  their  devotion  ;  't  was  to  her 
Whose  laws  all  follow,  her  whose  smile 

withdraws 
The  sword  from  Ares,  thunderbolt   from 

Zeus, 

And  whom  in  his  chill  caves  the  mutable 
Of  mind,  Poseidon,  the  sea-king,  reveres, 
And  whom  his  brother,  stubborn  Dis,  hath 

pray'd 

To  turn  in  pity  the  averted  cheek 
Of  her  he  bore  away,  with  promises, 
Nay,  with  loud  oath  before  dread  Styx  it 
self, 

To  give  her  daily  more  and  sweeter  flowers 

Thau  he  made  drop  from  her  on  Enna's  dell. 

Rhaicos  was  looking  from  his  father's 

door 

At  the  long  trains  that  hasten'd  to  the  town 
From  all  the  valleys,  like  bright  rivulets 
Gurgling  with  gladness,  wave  outrunning 

wave, 

And  thought  it  hard  he  might  not  also  go 
And  offer  up  one  prayer,  and  press  one 

hand, 
He  knew  not  whose.     The  father  call'd  him 

in 
And  said,    "  Son  Rhaicos  1   those  are  idle 

games  ; 

Long  enough  I  have  liv'd  to  find  them  so." 
And  ere  he  ended,  sigh'd  ;  as  old  men  do 
Always,  to  think  how  idle  such  games  are. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


"  I  have  not  yet,"  thought  Rhaicos  in  his 

heart, 
And  wanted  proof. 

"  Suppose  thou  go  and  help 
Echion  at  the  hill,  to  bark  yon  oak 
And  lop  its  branches  off,  before  we  delve 
About  the  trunk  and  ply  the  root  with  axe  : 
This  we  may  do  in  winter." 

Rhaicos  went  ; 
For  thence  he  could  see  farther,  and  see 

more 

Of  those  who  hurried  to  the  city-gate. 
Echion  he  found  there,  with  naked  arm 
Swart-hair'd,  strong-sinew'd,  and  his  eyes 

intent 
Upon  the  place  where  first  the  axe  should 

fall: 

He  held  it  upright.  "  There  are  bees  about, 
Or  wasps,  or  hornets,"  said  the  cautious  eld, 
"  Look  sharp,  O  son  of  Thallinos  !  "  The 

youth 

Inclin'd  his  ear,  afar,  and  warily, 
And  cavern'd  in  his  hand.     He  heard  a  buzz 
At  first,  and  then  the  sound  grew  soft  and 

clear, 

And  then  divided  into  what  seem'd  tune, 
And  there  were  words   upon  it,  plaintive 

words. 

He  turn'd,  and  said,  "  Echion  !  do  not  strike 
That  tree  :  it  must  be  hollow  ;  for  some 

god 
Speaks  from  within.     Come  thyself  near." 

Again 
Both  turn'd  toward  it :  and  behold  !  there 

sat 

Upon  the  moss  below,  with  her  two  palms 
Pressing  it,  on  each  side,  a  maid  in  form. 
Downcast  were  her  long  eyelashes,  and  pale 
Her  cheek,  but  never  mountain-ash  display'd 
Berries  of  color  like  her  lip  so  pure, 
Nor  were  the  anemones  about  her  hair 
Soft,  smooth,  and  wavering  like  the  face 

beneath. 

"  What  dost  thou  here  ?  "  Echion,  half- 
afraid, 

Half-angry,  cried.  She  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
But  nothing  spake  she.  Rhaicos  drew  one 

step 

Backward,  for  fear  came  likewise  over  him, 
But  not  such  fear :  he  panted,  gasp'd,  drew 

in 
His  breath,  and  would  have  turn'd  it  into 

words, 
But  could  not  into  one. 

"  O  send  away 


That  sad  old  man  ! "  said  she.    The  old  man 

went 

Without  a  warning  from  his  master's  son, 
Glad  to  escape,  for  sorely  he  now  fear'd, 
And  the  axe  shone  behind  him  in  their  eyes. 
Hamad.    And  wouldst  thou  too  shed  the 

most  innocent 
Of  blood  ?     No  vow  demands  it ;  no  god 

wills 
The  oak  to  bleed. 

Rhaicos.   Who  art  thou  ?  whence  ?  why 

here  ? 
And  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ?    Among:  the 

rob'd 

In  white  or  saffron,  or  the  hue  that  most 
Resembles  dawn  or  the  clear  sky,  is  none 
Array'd  as  thou  art.  What  so  beautiful 
As  that  gray  robe  which  clings  about  thee 

close, 
Like   moss  to  stones  adhering,  leaves  to 

trees, 

Yet  lets  thy  bosom  rise  and  fall  in  turn, 
As,  touch'd  by  zephyrs,  fall  and  rise  the 

boughs 

Of  graceful  platan  by  the  river-side  ? 
Hamad.   Lovest  thou   well  thy  father's 

house  ? 

Rhaicos.  Indeed 

I  love  it,  well  I  love  it,  yet  would  leave 
For  thine,  where'er  it  be,  my  father's  house, 
With  all  the  marks  upon  the  door,  that  show 
My  growth  at  every  birthday  since  the  third, 
And  all  the  charms,  o'erpowering  evil  eyes, 
My  mother  nail'd  for  me  against  my  bed, 
And  the  Cydonian  bow  (which  thou  shalt 

see) 

Won  in  my  race  last  spring  from  Eutychos. 
Hamad.   Bethink  thee  what  it  is  to  leave 

a  home 

Thou  never  yet  hast  left,  one  night,  one  day. 
Rhaicos.   No,  't  is  not  hard  to  leave  it : 

't  is  not  hard 

To  leave,  O  maiden,  that  paternal  home 
If  there  be  one  on  earth  whom  we  may  love 
First,  last,  for  ever  ;  one  who  says  that  she 
Will  love  for  ever  too.     To  say  which  word, 
Only  to  say  it,  surely  is  enough. 
It  shows  such  kindness  —  if  't  were  possible 
We  at  the  moment  think  she  would  indeed. 
Hamad.    Who  taught  thee  all  this  folly  at 

thy  age  ? 
Rhaicos.   I  have  seen   lovers   and   have 

learn'd  to  love. 

Hamad.   But  wilt  thou  spare  the  tree  ? 
Rhaicos.  My  father  wants 


WALTER   SAVAGE  LANDOR 


The  bark  ;  the  tree  may  hold  its  place  awhile. 
Hamad.    Awhile  ?    thy   father   numbers 

then  my  days  ? 

Rhaicos.    Are  there  no  others  where  the 
moss  beneath 

Is  quite  as  tufty  ?     Who  would  send  thee 
forth 

Or  ask  thee  why  thou  tarriest  ?    Is  thy  flock 

Anywhere  near? 

Hamad.  I  have  no  flock  :  I  kill 

Nothing  that  breathes,  that  stirs,  that  feels 
the  air, 

The  sun,  the  dew.     Why  should  the  beauti 
ful 

(And  thou  art  beautiful)  disturb  the  source 

Whence  springs  all   beauty  ?     Hast  thou 
never  heard 

Of  Hamadryads  ? 

Rhaicos.  Heard  of  them  I  have  : 

Tell  me  some  tale  about  them.     May  I  sit 

Beside  thy  feet  ?    Art  thou  not  tired  ?    The 
herbs 

Are  very  soft  ;  I  will  not  come  too  nigh  ; 

Do  but  sit  there,  nor  tremble  so,  nor  doubt. 

Stay,  stay  an  instant :  let  me  first  explore 

If  any  acorn  of  last  year  be  left 

Within  it ;  thy  thin  robe  too  ill  protects 

Thy  dainty  limbs  against  the  harm  one  small 

Acorn  may  do.    Here  's  none.  ,Another  day 

Trust  me  ;  till  then  let  me  sit  opposite. 
Hamad.   I  seat  me  ;  be  thou  seated,  and 

content. 

Rhaicos.   O  sight  for  gods  !  ye  men  be 
low  !  adore 

The  Aphrodite  !     Is  she  there  below  ? 

Or  sits  she  here  before  me?  as  she  sate 

Before  the  shepherd  on  those  heights  that 
shade 

The  Hellespont,  and  brought  his  kindred 

woe. 

Hamad.   Reverence  the  higher  Powers  ; 
nor  deem  amiss 

Of  her  who  pleads  to  thee,  and  would  re- 

pfty— 

A.sk  not  how  much  —  but  very  much.     Rise 

not  : 

No,  Rhaicos,  no  !     Without  the  nuptial  vow 
Love  is  unholy.     Swear  to  me  that  none 
Of  mortal  maids  shall  ever  taste  thy  kiss, 
Then  take  thou  mine  ;   then  take  it,  not 

before. 
Rhaicos.   Hearken,  all  gods  above  !     O 

Aphrodite  ! 

0  Here  !     Let  my  vow  be  ratified  ! 
But  wilt  thou  come  into  my  father's  house? 


Hamad.  Nay  :  and  of  mine  I  cannot  give 

thee  part. 

Rhaicos.    Where  is  it  ? 
Hamad.  In  this  oak. 

Rhaicos.  Ay  ;  now  begins 

The  tale  of  Hamadryad  :  tell  it  through. 
Hamad.   Pray  of  thy  father  never  to  cut 

down 
My  tree  ;   and  promise  him,  as  well  thou 

mayst, 

That  every  year  he  shall  receive  from  me 
More  honey  than  will  buy  him  nine  fat  sheep, 
More  wax  than  he  will  burn  to  all  the  gods. 
Why  fallest  thou  upon  thy  face  ?     home 

thorn 
May  scratch  it,  rash  young  man  !    Rise  up  ; 

for  shame  ! 
Rhaicos.    For  shame  I  cannot  rise.    O  pity 

me  ! 

I  dare  not  sue  for  love  —  but  do  not  hate  ! 
Let  me  once  more  behold  thee  —  not  once 

more, 

But  many  days  :  let  me  love  on  —  unlov'd  ! 
I  aim'd  too  high  :  on  my  own  head  the  bolt 
Falls  back,  and  pierces  to  the  very  brain. 
Hamad.   Go  —  rather  go,  than  make  me 

say  I  love. 

Rhaicos.    If  happiness  is  immortality, 
(And  whence  enjoy  it  else  the  gods  above  ?) 
I  am  immortal  too  :  my  vow  is  heard  — 
Hark  !  on  the  left  —  Nay,  turn  not  from  me 

now, 
I  claim  my  kiss. 

Hamad.    Do  men  take  first,  then  claim  ? 
Do  thus  the  seasons  run  their  course  with 
them? 

Her  lips  were  seal'd  ;  her  head  sank  on 

his  breast. 
'T  is  said  that  laughs  were  heard  within  the 

wood  : 
But  who   should   hear  them?  and  whose 

laughs  ?  and  why  ? 

Savory  was  the  smell  and  long  past  noon, 
Thallinos  !  in  thy  house  ;  for  marjoram, 
Basil  and  mint,  and  thyme  and  rosemary, 
Were  sprinkled  on  the   kid's  well  roasted 

length, 

Awaiting  Rhaicos.     Home  he  came  at  last, 
Not  hungry,  but  pretending  hunger  keen, 
With  head  and  eyes  just  o'er  the   maple 

plate. 
"Thou  see'stbut  badly,  coming  from  the 

sun, 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Boy  Rhaicos!"   said   the   father.     "That 

oak's  bark 

Must  have  been  tough,  with  little  sap  be 
tween  ; 

It  ought  to  run  ;  but  it  and  I  are  old." 
Rhaicos,  although  each  morsel  of  the  bread 
Increas'd  by  chewing,  and  the  meat  grew 

cold 

And  tasteless  to  his  palate,  took  a  draught 
Of  gold-bright  wine,  which,  thirsty  as  he 

was, 

He  thought  not  of,  until  his  father  filPd 
The  cup,  averring  water  was  amiss, 
But  wine  had  been  at  all  times  pour'd  on  kid. 
It  was  religion. 

He  thus  fortified 

Said,  not  quite  boldly,  and  not  quite  abash'd, 
"  Father,  that  oak  is  Zeus's  own  ;  that  oak 
Year  after  year  will  bring  thee  wealth  from 

wax 
And  honey.     There  is  one  who  fears  the 


And  the  gods  love  —  that  one  " 

(He  blush'd,  nor  said 
What  one) 

"  Has  promis'd  this,  and  may  do  more. 
Thou  hast  not  many  moons  to  wait  until 
The  bees  have  done  their   best ;    if  then 

there  come 

Nor  wax  nor  honey,  let  the  tree  be  hewn." 
"  Zeus  hath  bestow'd  on  thee  a  prudent 

mind," 
Said  the  glad  sire  :  "  but  look  thou  often 

there, 

And  gather  all  the  honey  thou  canst  find 
In  every  crevice,  over  and  above 
What  has  been  promis'd  ;  would  they  reckon 

that?" 

Rhaicos  went  daily ;  but  the  nymph  as  oft, 
Invisible.     To  play  at  love,  she  knew, 
Stopping  its  breathings  when  it  breathes 

most  soft, 

Is  sweeter  than  to  play  on  any  pipe. 
She  play'd  on  his  :  she  fed  upon  his  sighs  ; 
They  pleas'd  her  when  they  gently  wav'd 

her  hair, 

Cooling  the  pulses  of  her  purple  veins, 
And  when  her  absence  brought  them  out, 

they  pleas'd. 

Even  among  the  fondest  of  them  all, 
What  mortal  or  immortal  maid  is  more 
Content  with  giving  happiness  than  pain  ? 
One  day  he  was  returning  from  the  wood 
Despondently.     She  pitied  him,  and  said 


"  Come  back  !  "  and  twin'd  her  fingers  in 

the  hem 

Above  his  shoulder.     Then  she  led  his  steps 
To  a  cool  rill  that  ran  o'er  level  sand 
Through  lentiskand  through  oleander;  there 
Bath'd  she  his  feet,  lifting  them  on  her  lap 
When  bath'd,  and  drying  them  in  both  her 

hands. 
He  dar'd  complain  ;  for  those  who  most  are 

lov'd 

Most  dare  it  ;  but  not  harsh  was  his  com 
plaint. 

"  O  thou  inconstant  !  "  said  he,  "  if  stern  law 
Bind  thee,  or  will,  stronger  than  sternest 

law, 

O,  let  me  know  henceforward  when  to  hope 
The  fruit  of  love  that  grows  for  me  but 

here." 
He  spake  ;  and  pluck'd  it  from  its  pliant 

stem. 

"  Impatient  Rhaicos  !  Why  thus  intercept 
The  answer  I  would  give  ?  There  is  a  bee 
Whom  I  have  fed,  a  bee  who  knows  my 

thoughts 

And  executes  my  wishes  :  I  will  send 
That  messenger.     If  ever  thou  art  false, 
Drawn  by  another,  own  it  not,  but  drive 
My  bee  away  :  then  shall  I  know  my  fate, 
And  —  for  thou  must  be  wretched  —  weep 

at  thine. 

But  often  as  my  heart  persuades  to  lay 
Its  cares  on  thine  and  throb  itself  to  rest, 
Expect  her  with  thee,  whether  it  be  morn 
Or  eve,  at  any  time  when  woods  are  safe." 

Day   after  day  the  Hours  beheld  them 

blest, 

And  season  after  season  :  years  had  past, 
Blest  were  they  still.     He  who  asserts  that 

Love 

Ever  is  sated  of  sweet  things,  the  same 
Sweet  things  he  fretted  for  in  earlier  days, 
Never,  by  Zeus  !  lov'd  he  a  Hamadryad. 

The  nights  had  now  grown  longer,  and 

perhaps 

The  Hamadryads  find  them  lone  and  dull 
Among  their  woods  ;  one  did,  alas  !     She 

call'd 
Her    faithful    bee  :  't  was   when   all   bees 

should  sleep, 
.And  all  did  sleep  but  hers.     She  was  sent 

forth 

To  bring  that  light  which  never  wintry  blast 
Blows  out,  nor  rain  nor  snow  extinguishes, 
The  light  that  shines  from  loving  eyes  upon 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 


Eyes  that  love  back,  till  they  can  see  no 

more. 

Rhaicos  was  sitting  at  his  father's  hearth  : 
Between   them   stood  the  table,  not  o'er- 

spread 
With  fruits  which  autumn  now  profusely 

bore, 
Nor  anise   cakes,   nor  odorous  wine  ;  but 

there 
The  draft-board  was  expanded  ;  at  which 

game 

Triumphant  sat  old  Thallinos  ;  the  son 
Was  puzzled,  vex'd,  discomfited,  distraught. 
A  buzz  was  at  his  ear  :  up  went  his  hand 
And  it  was  heard  no  longer.     The  poor  bee 
Return'd    (but   not   until  the  morn  shone 

bright) 

And  found  the  Hamadryad  with  her  head 
Upon  her  aching  wrist,  and  show'd  one  wing 
Half-broken  off,  the  other's  meshes  marr'd, 
And  there  were  bruises  which  no  eye  could 

see 
Saving  a  Hamadryad's. 

At  this  sight 
Down  fell  the  languid  brow,  both  hands  fell 

down, 

A  shriek  w'as  carried  to  the  ancient  hall 
Of  Thallinos  :  he  heard  it  not :  his  son 
Heard  it,  and  ran  forthwith  into  the  wood. 
No  bark  was  on  the  tree,  no  leaf  was  green, 
The  trunk  was  riven  through.     From  that 

day  forth 
Nor  word  nor  whisper  sooth'd  his  ear,  nor 

sound 

Even  of  insect  wing  ;  but  loud  laments 
The  woodmen  and  the  shepherds  one  long 

year 
Heard  day  and  night ;  for  Rhaicos  would 

not  quit 
The  solitary  place,  but  moan'd  and  died. 

Hence  milk  and  honey  wonder  not,  O  guest, 
To  find  set  duly  on  the  hollow  stone. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA 

"  ARTEMIDORA  !     Gods  invisible, 
While  thou  art  lying  faint  along  the  couch, 
Have  tied  the  sandal  to  thy  veined  feet, 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow. 
Refreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariness 
Away,  and  voices  like  thine  own  c.ome  nigh, 
Soliciting,  nor  vainly,  thy  embrace." 


Artemidora  sigh 'd,  and  would  have  press'd 
The  hand  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too 

weak. 

Fate's  shears  were  over  her  dark  hair  un 
seen 

While  thus  Elpcnor  spake  :  he  look'd  into 
Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  erewhile 
To  those  above  them,  those  now  dim  with 

tears 

And  watchfulness.  Again  he  spake  of  joy, 
Eternal.  At  that  word,  that  sad  word,  joy, 
Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heav'd  once 

more, 
Her  head  fell  back  :  one  sob,  one  loud  deep 

sob 
Swell'd   through   the   darken'd   chamber  ; 

't  was  not  hers  : 

With  her  that  old  boat  incorruptible, 
Unwearied,  undiverted  in  its  course, 
Had  plash'd  the  water  up  the  farther  strand. 

FROM  "MYRTIS" 

FRIENDS,  whom  she  look'd  at  blandly  from 

her  couch 

And  her  white  wrist  above  it,  gem-bedew'd, 
Were  arguing  with  Pentheusa  :  she  had 

heard 

Report  of  Creon's  death,  whom  years  before 
She  listeu'd  to,  well-pleas'd ;  and  sighs 

arose  ; 

For  sighs  full  often  fondle  with  reproofs 
And  will  be  fondled   by  them.     When  I 

came 

After  the  rest  to  visit  her,  she  said, 
"  Myrtis  !  how  kind  !  Who  better  knows 

than  thou 
The  panes  of  love  ?  and  my  first  love  was 

h?!" 

Tell  me  (if  ever,  Eros  !  are  re  veal 'd 
Thy  secrets  to  the  earth)  have  they  been 

true 

To  any  love  who  speak  about  the  first  ? 
What  1  shall  these  holier  lights,  like  twin 

kling  stars 
In  the   few   hours   assign'd   them,  change 

their  place, 

And,  when  comes  ampler  splendor,  disap 
pear  ? 

Idler  I  am,  and  pardon,  not  reply, 
Implore  from  thee,  thus  question'd  ;   well 

I  know 
Thou  strikest,  like   Olympian    Jove,  but 

once. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


LITTLE  AGLAE 

TO  HER  FATHER,  ON   HER  STATUE   BEING 
CALLED  LIKE 'HER 

FATHER  !  the  little  girl  we  see 

Is  not,  I  fancy,  so  like  me  ; 

You  never  hold  her  on  your  knee. 

When  she  came  home,  the  other  day, 
You  kiss'd  her  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
She  kiss'd  you  first  and  ran  away. 


TO   A   CYCLAMEN 

f  COME  to  visit  thee  agen, 
My  little  flowerless  cyclamen  ; 
To  touch  the  hand,  almost  to  press, 
That  cheer'd  thee  in  thy  loneliness. 
What  could  thy  careful  guardian  find 
Of  thee  in  form,  of  me  in  mind, 
What  is  there  in  us  rich  or  rare, 
To  make  us  claim  a  moment's  care  ? 
Unworthy  to  be  so  carest, 
We  are  but  withering  leaves  at  best. 


DIRCE 

STAND  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 
With  Dirce  in  one  boat  convey'd, 

Or  Charon,  seeing,  may  forget 
That  he  is  old,  and  she  a  shade. 


AN  INVOCATION 

WE  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters 

make  us  ; 
The  mountains  are  our  sponsors,  and  the 

rills 
Fashion  and  win  their  nursling  with  their 

smiles. 

But  where  the  land  is  dim  from  tyranny, 
There  tiny  pleasures  occupy  the  place 
Of  glories  and  of  duties  ;  as  the  feet 
Of  fabled  faeries  when  the  sun  goes  down 
Trip  o'er  the  grass  where  wrestlers  strove 

by  day. 

Then  Justice,  call'd  the  Eternal  One  above, 
Is  more  inconstant  than  the  buoyant  form 
That  burst  into  existence  from  the  froth 
Of  ever-varying  ocean  :  what  is  best 


Then  becomes  worst ;  what  loveliest,  most 

deform'd. 

The  heart  is  hardest  in  the  softest  climes, 
The  passions  flourish,  the  affections  die. 
O  thou  vast  tablet  of  these  awful  truths, 
That  fillest  all  the  space  between  the  seas, 
Spreading  from  Venice's  deserted  courts 
To  the  Tarentine  and  Hydruntine  mole, 
What  lifts  thee  up  ?  what  shakes  thee  ?  'tis 

the  breath 

Of  God.  Awake,  ye  nations  !  spring  to  life  ! 
Let  the  last  work  of  his  right  hand  appear 
Fresh  with  his  image,  Man. 


FROM  "GEBIR" 

TAMAR   AND   THE   NYMPH 

"  'T  WAS  evening,  though  not  sunset,  and 

the  tide, 
Level  with   these  green  meadows,  seem'd 

yet  higher  : 
'Twas   pleasant,  and  I  loosen'd  from  my 

neck 
The  pipe  you  gave  me,  and  began  to  play. 

0  that   I   ne'er   had   learn'd   the   tuneful 

art  ! 

It  always  brings  us  enemies  or  love. 
Well,  I  was  playing,  when  above  the  waves 
Some  swimmer's  head  methought   I   saw 

ascend  ; 

I,  sitting  still,  survey'd  it  with  my  pipe 
Awkwardly  held  before  my  lips  half-clos'd. 
Gebir  !  it  was  a  Nymph  !  a  Nymph  divine  J 

1  cannot  wait  describing  how  she  came, 
How  I  was  sitting,  how  she  first  assum'd 
The  sailor  ;  of  what  happen 'd  there  remains 
Enough  to  say,  and  too  much  to  forget. 
The  sweet  deceiver  stepp'd  upon  this  bank 
Before  I  was  aware  ;  for  with  surprise 
Moments  fly  rapid  as  with  love  itself. 
Stooping  to  tune  afresh  the  hoarsen'd  reed, 
I  heard  a  rustling,  and  where  that  arose 
My  glance  first  lighted  on  her  nimble  feet. 
Her  feet  resembled  those  long  shells  ex- 

plor'd 

By  him  who  to  befriend  his  steed's  dim  sight 
Would  blow  the  pungent  powder  in  the  eye. 
Her  eyes  too  !  O  immortal  gods  !  her  eyes 
Resembled  —  what  could  they  resemble  ? 

what 

Ever  resemble  those  ?     Even  her  attire 
Was  not  of  wonted  woof  nor  vulgar  art : 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 


Her  mantle  show'd  the  yellow  samphire- 
pod, 

Her  girdle  the  dove-color'd  wave  serene. 
'  Shepherd,'  said  she,  *  and  will  you  wrestle 

now 

And  with  the  sailor's  hardier  race  engage  ?  ' 
I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  contriv'd 
How  to  keep  up  contention  :  could  I  fail 
By  pressing  not  too  strongly,  yet  to  press  ? 
'  Whether  a  shepherd,  as  indeed  you  seem, 
Or  whether  of  the  hardier  race  you  boast, 
I  am  not  daunted  ;  no  ;  I  will  engage.' 
« But  first,'  said  she,  '  what  wager  will  you 

lay?' 
<  A  sheep,'  I  answered  :  « add  whate'er  you 

will.' 

*  I  cannot,'  she  replied,  '  make  that  return  : 
Our  hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round 
Seldom,  unless  from  rapine,  hold  a  sheep. 
But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbib'd 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where  when  un- 

yok'd 
His  chariot-wheel  stands   midway   in   the 

wave  : 

Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polish'd  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 
And  I  have  others  given  me  by  the  nymphs, 
Of  sweeter  sound  than  any  pipe  you  have  : 
But  we,  by  Neptune  !  for  no  pipe  contend  ; 
This  time  a  sheep  I  win,  a  pipe  the  next.' 
Now  came  she  forward  eager  to  engage, 
But  first  her  dress,  her  bosom  then  survey'd 
And  heav'd  it,  doubting  if  she  could  deceive. 
Her  bosom   seem'd,  inclos'd  in  haze   like 

heaven, 

To  baffle  touch,  and  rose  forth  undefin'd  ; 
Above  her  knee  she  drew  the  robe  succinct, 
Above  her  breast,  and  just  below  her  arms. 
1  This  will  preserve  my  breath  when  tightly 

bound, 
If  struggle  and   equal  strength  should  so 

constrain.' 

Thus,  pulling  hard  to  fasten  it,  she  spake, 
And,    rushing    at   me,   clos'd :    I   thrill'd 

throughout 
And  seem'd  to  lessen  and  shrink  up  with 

cold. 

Again  with  violent  impulse  gush'd  my  blood, 
And  hearing  nought  external,  thus  absorb'd, 
I  heard  it,  rushing  through  each  turbid  vein, 
Shake  my  unsteady  swimming  sight  in  air. 
Yet  with  unyielding  though  uncertain  arms 


I  clung  around  her  neck  ;  the  vest  beneath 
Rustled  against  our  slippery  limbs  entwin'd: 
Often  mine  springing  with  eluded  force 
Started  aside  and  trembled  till  replaced  : 
And  when  I  most  succeeded,  as  I  thought, 
My  bosom  and  my  throat  felt  so  compress'd 
That  life  was  almost  quivering  on  my  lips. 
Yet  nothing  was  there  painful  :  these  are 

signs 

Of  secret  arts  and  not  of  human  might ; 
What  arts  I  cannot  tell  ;  I  only  know 
My    eyes    grew   dizzy    and    my   strength 

decay'd  ; 

I  was  indeed  o'ercome  —  with  what  regret, 
And  more,  with   what  confusion,  when    I 

reach'd 
The  fold,  and  yielding  up  the  sheep,  she 

cried, 
'  This  pays   a    shepherd  to  a  conquering 

maid.' 

She  smil'd,  and  more  of  pleasure  than  dis 
dain 

Was  in  her  dimpled  chin  and  liberal  lip, 
And  eyes  that  languished,  lengthening,  just 

like  love. 

She  went  away  ;  I  on  the  wicker  gate 
Leant,   and    could    follow  with   my    eyet 

alone 

The  sheep  she  carried  easy  as  a  cloak  ; 
But  when  I  heard  its  bleating,  as  I  did, 
And  saw,  she  hastening  on,  its  hinder  feet 
Struggle,  and  from  her  snowy  shoulder  slip, 
One  shoulder  its  poor  efforts  had  unveil'd, 
Then  all  my  passions  mingling  fell  in  tears  ; 
Restless  then  ran  I  to  the  highest  ground 
To  watch  her  ;  she  was  gone  ;  gone  down 

the  tide ; 
And  the  long  moonbeam  on  the  hard  wet 

sand 
Lay  like  a  jasper  column  half  uprear'd." 


TO   YOUTH 

WHERE  art  thou  gone,  light-ankled  Youth  ? 

With  wing  at  either  shoulder, 
And  smile  that  never  left  thy  mouth 

Until  the  Hours  grew  colder  : 

Then  somewhat  seem'd  to  whisper  near 

That  thou  and  I  must  part  ; 
I  doubted  it ;  I  felt  no  fear, 

No  weight  upon  the  heart. 


10 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


If  aught  befell  it,  Love  was  by 

And  roll'd  it  off  again  ; 
So,  if  there  ever  was  a  sigh, 

'T  was  not  a  sigh  of  pain. 

I  may  not  call  thee  back  ;  but  thou 
Returnest  when  the  hand 

Of  gentle  Sleep  waves  o'er  my  brow 
His  poppy-crested  wand  ; 

Then  smiling  eyes  bend  over  mine, 
Then  lips  once  press'd  invite  ; 

But  sleep  hath  given  a  silent  sign, 
And  both,  alas  !  take  flight. 


TO   AGE 

WELCOME,  old  friend  !     These  many  years 

Have  we  liv'd  door  by  door : 
The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 

Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 

I  was  indocile  at  an  age 

When  better  boys  were  taught, 

But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 
If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men, 

Too  little  they  from  me, 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for.  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain  ; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again  : 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage. 
He  who  hath  brav'd  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age. 


ROSE  AYLMER 

AH  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


ROSE    AYLMER'S     HAIR,    GIVEN 
BY   HER   SISTER 

BEAUTIFUL  spoils  !  borne  off  from  van- 
quish'd  death  ! 

Upon  my  heart's  high  altar  shall  ye  lie, 
Mov'd  but  by  only  one  adorer's  breath, 

Retaining  youth,  rewarding  constancy. 


CHILD   OF   A   DAY 

CHILD  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not 

The  tears  that  overflow  thine  urn, 
The  gushing  eyes  that  read  thy  lot, 

Nor,  if  thou  knewest,  couldst  return. 
And  why  the  wish  !  the  pure  and  blest 

Watch  like  thy  mother  o'er  thy  sleep. 
O  peaceful  night !     O  envied  rest  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  ever  see  her  weep. 


FIESOLAN  IDYL 

HERE,  where  precipitate  Spring  with  one 

light  bound 

Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires, 
And  where   go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at 

night, 

Soft  airs  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  'em, 
And  softer  sighs  that  know  not  what  they 

want, 

Aside  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree, 
Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier 

ones 

Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At  what  they  seem'd  to  show  me  with  their 

nods, 
Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  pointing 

shoots, 

A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden-steps 
And  gather'd  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I   heard  the  branches   rustle,  and  stepp'd 

forth 

To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat, 
Such  I  believ'd  it  must  be.     How  could  I 
Let  beast  o'erpower  them  ?  when  hath  wind 

or  rain 
Borne  hard  upon  weak  plant  that  wanted 

me, 
And  I  (however  they  might  bluster  round) 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


ii 


Walk'd  off  ?    'T  were  most  ungrateful :  for 

sweet  scents 
Are    the   swift   vehicles   of    still    sweeter 

thoughts, 

And  nurse  and  pillow  the  dull  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her  best 

stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of 

love, 

\nd  ?t  is  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die 
(Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls 

depart) 

Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose  ;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 
And    not  reproach'd  me  ;  the  ever-sacred 

cup 

Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoil'd,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 
I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves 
More  glossy  ;  the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 
Wann'd  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit ; 
I  saw  the  foot  that,  although  half-erect 
From  its  gray  slipper,  could  not  lift  her  up 
To  what  she  wanted  :  I  held  down  a  branch 
And   gather'd   her   some  blossoms  ;   since 

their  hour 
Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them, 

and  flies 
Of  harder   wing  were  working  their  way 

through 
And  scattering  them   in  fragments  under 

foot. 

So  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolv'd, 
Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  shells, 
Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow, 
And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or 

sun  : 

Yet  every  one  her  gown  receiv'd  from  me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first.     I  thought  not  so, 
But  so  she  prais'd  them  to  reward  my  care. 
I  said,  "  You  find  the  largest." 

"  This  indeed," 
Cried  she,  "  is  large  and  sweet."    She  held 

one  forth, 

Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solv'd  (and  this  she  felt) 

her  doubt. 

I  dar'd  not  touch  it  ;  for  it  seem'd  a  part 
Of   her  own   self ;    fresh,   full,    the   most 

mature 

Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;  with  a  touch 
To  fall,  and  yet  unfallen.     She  drew  back 


The  boon  she  tendered,  and  then,  finding  not 
The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropp'd  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

I  LEAVE  thee,  beauteous  Italy  !  no  more 
From  the  high  terraces,  at  even-tide, 
To  look  supine  into  thy  depths  of  sky, 
Thy  golden  moon  between  the  cliff  and  me, 
Or  thy  dark  spires  of  fretted  cypresses 
Bordering  the  channel  of  the  milky  way. 
Fiesole  and  Valdarno  must  be  dreams 
Hereafter,  and  my  own  lost  Affrico 
Murmur  to  me  but  in  the  poet's  song. 
I  did  believe  (what  have  I  not  believ'd?), 
Weary  with  age,  but  unoppress'd  by  pain, 
To  close  in  thy  soft  clime  my  quiet  day 
And  rest  my  bones  in  the  mimosa's  shade. 
Hope  !    Hope  !    few  ever  cherish'd  thee  so 

little  ; 

Few  are  the  heads  thou  hast  so  rarely  rais'd ; 
But  thou  didst  promise  this,  and  all  was 

well. 

For  we  are  fond  of  thinking  where  to  lie 
When  every  pulse  hath  ceas'd,  when   the 

lone  heart 

Can  lift  no  aspiration  —  reasoning 
As  if  the  sight  were  unimpair'd  by  death, 
Were  unobstructed  by  the  coffin-lid, 
And  the  sun  cheer'd  corruption  !     Over  all 
The  smiles  of  Nature  shed  a  potent  charm, 
And  light  us  to  our  chamber  at  the  grave. 


THE   MAID'S   LAMENT 

ELIZABETHAN 

I  LOV'D  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 

I  check'd  him  while  he  spoke  ;  yet  could 
he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  liv'd  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death, 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 


12 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Who  wasted  his  for  me  ;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for 
years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
Merciful  God  !  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

These  may  she  never  share  ! 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold, 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  church 
yard  gate, 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be, 

And  oh  !  pray  too  for  me  ! 


MARGARET 

MOTHER,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel ; 
My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry  ;' 
Oh,  if  you  felt  the  pain  I  feel ! 
But  oh,  who  ever  felt  as  I ! 
No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true, 
All  other  men  may  use  deceit ; 
He  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 
And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet. 


ON   MUSIC 

MANY  love  music  but  for  music's  sake  ; 
Many  because  her  touches  can  awake 
Thoughts  that  repose  within  the  breast  half 

dead, 

And  rise  to  follow  where  she  loves  to  lead. 
What    various   feelings  come    from    days 

gone  by  ! 
What  tears  from  far-off  sources  dim  the 

eye  ! 
Few,  when  light  fingers  with  sweet  voices 


And    melodies    swell,    pause,    and    melt 

away, 

Mind  how  at  every  touch,  at  every  tone, 
A  spark  of  life  hath  glisten'd  and  hath  gone. 


PLAYS 

ALAS,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over 
Counted  us  out  to  play  the  lover  ! 
And  how  much  narrower  is  the  stage 
Allotted  us  to  play  the  sage  1 


But  when  we  play  the  fool,  how  wide 
The  theatre  expands  !  beside, 
How  long  the  audience  sits  before  us  ! 
How  many  prompters  !  what  a  chorus  ! 


THERE      FALLS     WITH      EVERY 
WEDDING   CHIME 

THERE  falls  with  every  wedding  chime 
A  feather  from  the  wing  of  Time. 
You  pick  it  up,  and  say  "  How  fair 
To  look  upon  its  colors  are  !  " 
Another  drops  day  after  day 
Unheeded  ;  not  one  word  you  say. 
When  bright  and  dusky  are  blown  past, 
Upon  the  hearse  there  nods  the  last. 


SHAKESPEARE   AND    MILTON 

THE  tongue  of  England,  that  which  myriads 
Have  spoken  and  will  speak,  were  paralyz'd 
Hereafter,  but  two  mighty  men  stand 

forth 

Above  the  flight  of  ages,  two  alone  ; 
One  crying  out, 

All  nations  spoke  through  me. 
The  other  : 

True  •  and  through  this  trumpet  burst 
God's  word  ;  the  fall  of  Angels,  and   the 

doom 

First  of  immortal,  then  of  mortal,  Man. 
Glory  !  be  glory  !  not  to  me,  to  God. 


MACAULAY 

THE  dreamy  rhymer's  measur'd  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more  ; 
And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
The  dear  delights  of  woman-kind, 
Who  win  their  battles  like  their  loves, 
In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves, 
And  have  achiev'd  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  truss'd   and   skewer'd  a 

Turk. 

Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 
And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead. 
He  rushes  on,  and  hails  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broad-breasted  Burns, 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were, 
When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

THERE  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none 

hear 

Beside  the  singer  ;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  ahove. 
Shakspeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech  !  and  brief  for 

thee, 
Browning !     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and 

hale, 
No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with 

step 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 
Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing  :  the 

breeze 
Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne 

on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  D'OSSOLI 
AND,  HIS  WIFE  MARGARET 
FULLER 

OVER  his  millions  Death  has  lawful  power, 
But  over  thee,  brave  D'Ossoli  !  none,  none. 
After  a  longer  struggle,  in  a  fight 
Worthy  of  Italy,  to  youth  restor'd, 
Thou,  far  from  home,  art  sunk  beneath  the 

surge 

Of  the  Atlantic  ;  on  its.  shore  ;  in  reach 
Of  help  ;    in  trust  of   refuge  ;   sunk  with 

all 
Precious  on  earth  to  thee  ...  a  child,  a 

wife! 

Proud  as  thou  wert  of  her,  America 
Is  prouder,  showing  to  her  sons  how  high 
Swells    woman's    courage    in    a   virtuous 

breast. 
She  would  not  leave  behind  her  those  she 

lov'd  : 

Such  solitary  safety  might  become 
Others  ;  not  her  ;  not  her  who  stood  beside 
The  pallet  of  the  wounded,  when  the  worst 
Of  France  and  Perfidy  assaiFd  the  walls 
Of  unsuspicious  Rome.    Rest,  glorious  soul, 
Renown'd  for  strength  of  genius,  Margaret ! 
Rest  with  the  twain  too  dear  !     My  words 

are  few, 
And  shortly  none  will  hear  my  failing  voice, 


But  the  same  language  with  more  full  ap 
peal 

Shall  hail  thee.    Many  are  the  sons  of  song 

Whom  thou  hast  heard  upon  thy  native 
plains 

Worthy  to  sing  of  thee  :  the  hour  is  come  ; 

Take  we  our  seats  and  let  the  dirge  begin. 


TO  IANTHE 

You  smil'd,  you  spoke,  and  I  believ'd, 
By  every  word  and  smile  deceiv'd. 
Another  man  would  hope  no  more  ; 
Nor  hope  I  what  I  hop'd  before  : 
But  let  not  this  last  wish  be  vain  ; 
Deceive,  deceive  me  once  again  i 

'"'".    lANTHE'S  TROUBLES 

YOUR  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the 

grass, 
Cut  down  and  up  again  as   blithe   as 

ever  ; 

From  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
Like  little  ripples  in  a  sunny  river. 

THE  APPEAL 

REMAIN,  ah  not  in  youth  alone, 

Though  youth,  where  you  are,  long  will 

stay, 
But  when  my  summer  days  are  gone, 

And  my  autumnal  haste  away. 

"  Can  I  be  always  by  your  side  ?  " 

No  ;  but  the  hours  you  can,  you  must, 
Nor  rise  at  Death's  approaching  stride, 

Nor  go  when  dust  is  gone  to  dust. 

THE   TEST 

I  HELD  her  hand,  the  pledge  of  bliss, 

Her  hand  that  trembled  and  withdrew  ; 
She  -bent  her  head  before  my  kiss  .  .  . 

My  heart  was  sure  that  hers  was  true. 
Now  I  have  told  her  I  must  part, 

She  shakes  my  hand,  she  bids  adieu, 
Nor  shuns  the  kiss.     Alas,  my  heart  I 

Hers  never  was  the  heart  for  you. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


IN  AFTER  TIME 

No,  my  own  love  of  other  years  ! 

No,  it  must  never  be. 
Much  rests  with  you  that  yet  endears, 

Alas  !  but  what  with  me  ? 
Could  those  bright  years  o'er  me  revolve 

So  gay,  o'er  you  so  fair, 
The  pearl  of  life  we  would  dissolve 

And  each  the  cup  might  share. 
You  show  that  truth  can  ne'er  decay, 

Whatever  fate  befalls  ; 
I,  that  the  myrtle  and  the  bay 

Shoot  fresh  on  ruin'd  walls. 


A    PROPHECY 

PROUD  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will 

speak 
Four  not  exempt  from  pride  some  future 

day. 
Resting  on  one  white  hand  a  warm  wet 

cheek, 

Over  my  open  volume  you  will  say, 
"This  nran   loved  me!"  then  rise   and 
trip  away. 


COWSLIPS 

WITH  rosy  hand  a  little  girl  press'd  down 
A  boss  of  fresh-cull'd  cowslips  in  a  rill : 
Often  as  they  sprang  up  again,  a  frown 
Show'd  she  dislik'd  resistance  to  her  will : 
But   when   they   droop'd  their  heads  and 

shone  much  less, 
She  shook  them  to  and  fro,  and  threw  them 

by, 

And  tripp'd  away.     "  Ye  loathe  the  heavi 
ness 

Ye  love  to  cause,  my  little  girls  !  "  thought  I, 
"And  what  has  shone  for  you,  by  you  must 
die!" 


WRINKLES 

WHEN  Helen  first  saw  wrinkles  in  her-face 
('Twas  when  some  fifty  long  had  settled 

there 

And  intermarried  and  branch'd  off  awide) 
She  threw  herself  upon  her  couch  and  wept  : 
On  this  side  hung  her  head,  and  over  that 


Listlessly  she  let  fall  the  faithless  brass 
That  made  the  men  as  faithless. 

But  when  you 
Found  them,  or  fancied  them,  and  would 

not  hear 

That  they  were  only  vestiges  of  smiles, 
Or  the  impression  of  some  amorous  hair 
Astray  from  cloister'd   curls  and   roseate 

band, 
Which  had  been  lying  there  all  night  per 

haps 

Upon  a  skin  so  soft,  "  No,  no,"  you  said, 
"  Sure,  they  are  coming,  yes,  are  come,  are 

here  : 
Well,  and  what  matters  it,  while  thou  art 

too  ! " 

ADVICE 

To  write  as  your  sweet  mother  does 

Is  all  you  wish  to  do. 
Play,  sing,  and  smile  for  others,  Rose  ! 

Let  others  write  for  you. 

Or  mount  again  your  Dartmoor  grey, 

And  I  will  walk  beside, 
Until  we  reach  that  quiet  bay    «. 

Which  only  hears  the  tide. 

Then  wave  at  me  your  pencil,  then 
At  distance  bid  me  stand, 

Before  the  cavern'd  cliff,  again 
The  creature  of  your  hand. 

And  bid  me  then  go  past  the  nook 
To  sketch  me  less  in  size  ; 

There  are  but  few  content  to  look 
So  little  in  your  eyes. 

Delight  us  with  the  gifts  you  have, 
And  wish  for  none  beyond  : 

To  some  be  gay,  to  some  be  grave, 
To  one  (blest  youth  !)  be  fond. 

Pleasures  there  are  how  close  to  Pain, 

And  better  unpossest  ! 
Let  poetry's  too  throbbing  vein 

Lie  quiet  in  your  breast. 

HOW   TO   READ   ME 

To  turn  my  volumes  o'er  nor  find 
(Sweet  unsuspicious  friend  !) 

Some  vestige  of  an  erring  mind 
To  chide  or  discommend, 


WALTER   SAVAGE  LANDOR 


Believe  that  all  were  lov'd  like  you 
With  love  from  blame  exempt, 

Believe  that  all  my  griefs  were  true 
And  all  my  joys  but  dreamt. 


TIME   TO  BE   WISE 

YES  ;  I  write  verses  now  and  then, 
But  blunt  and  flaccid  is  my  pen, 
No  longer  talk'd  of  by  young  men 

As  rather  clever  ; 
In  the  last  quarter  are  my  eyes, 
You  see  it  by  their  form  and  size  ; 
Is  it  not  time  then  to  be  wise  ? 

Or  now  or  never. 

Fairest  that  ever  sprang  from  Eve  ! 
While  Time  allows  the  short  reprieve, 
Just  look  at  me  !  would  you  believe 

'T  was  once  a  lover  ? 
I  cannot  clear  the  five-bar  gate  ; 
But,  trying  first  its  timber's  state, 
Climb  stiffly  up,  take  breath,  and  wait 

To  trundle  over. 

Through  gallopade  I  cannot  swing 

The  entangling  blooms  of  Beauty's  spring 

I  cannot  say  the  tender  thing, 

Be 't  true  or  false, 
And  am  beginning  to  opine 
Those  girls  are  only  half  divine 
Whose  waists  yon  wicked  boys  entwine 

In  giddy  waltz. 

I  fear  that  arm  above  that  shoulder  ; 
I  wish  them  wiser,  graver,  older, 
Sedater,  and  no  harm  if  colder, 

And  panting  less. 
Ah  !  people  were  not  half  so  wild 
In  former  days,  when,  starchly  mild, 
Upon  her  high-heel'd  Essex  smil'd 

The  brave  Queen  Bess. 


THE   ONE   WHITE   HAIR 

THE  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies 

And  love  to  hear  them  told  ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listen'd  to  many  a  one,  — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew 
old. 


I  never  was  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 


But  pretty  lies  lov'd  I 
As  much  as  any  king, 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  ?)  when  youth 
had  quite  gone  by. 

Alas  !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot 

When  one  pert  lady  said, 
"  O  Walter  !  I  am  quite 
Bewilder'd  with  affright  ! 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now)  a  white  hair  on  your 
head!" 

Another  more  benign 
Snipp'd  it  away  from  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  it  was  found  .  .  . 
She  leap'd,  and  twirl'd  it  round  .  .  . 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair  ! 


ON  HIMSELF 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my 

strife  ; 

Nature  I  lov'd,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 
I  warm'd   both   hands   before  the  fire  of 

life; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


ON   LUCRETIA  BORGIA'S   HAIR 

BORGIA,  thou  once  wert  almost  too  august 

And  high  for  adoration ;  now  thou  'rt 
dust; 

All  that  remains  of  thee  these  plaits  un 
fold, 

Calm  hair  meandering  in  pellucid  gold. 


PERSISTENCE 

MX  hopes  retire  ;  my  wishes  as  before 
Struggle    to    find    their    resting-place    in 

vain  : 
The    ebbing   sea   thus  beats   against   the 

shore  ; 
The  shore  repels  it ;  it  returns  again. 


i6 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


MAN 

IN  his  own  image  the  Creator  made, 

His  own  pure  sunbeam  quicken'd  thee,  O 

man  ! 

Thou  breathing  dial !  since  thy  day  began 
The   present   hour  was   ever  inark'd  with 
shade  ! 

TO    SLEEP 

COME,  Sleep  !  but  mind  ye  !  if  you  come 

without 

The  little  girl  that  struck  me  at  the  rout, 
By  Jove  !  I  would  not  give  you  half-a-crown 
For  all  your  poppy-heads  and  all  your  down. 


ON  LIVING  TOO  LONG 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour 

In  its  calm  cell  to  rest  the  weary  head, 

While  birds  are  singing  and  while  blooms 

the  bower, 
Than  sit  the  fire  out  and  go  starv'd  to  bed? 


A   THOUGHT 

BLYTHE  bell,  that  calls  to  bridal  halls, 

Tolls  deep  a  darker  day  ; 
The  very  shower  that  feeds  the  flower 

Weeps  also  its  decay. 


HEARTSEASE 

THERE  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear, 
But  not  until  first  worn  by  you  — 

Heartsease  —  of  all   earth's   flowers  most 

rare  ; 
Bring  it ;  and  bring  enough  for  two. 


VERSES   WHY   BURNT 

How  many  verses  have  I  thrown 
Into  the  fire  because  the  one 
Peculiar  word,  the  wanted  most, 
Was  irrecoverably  lost ! 


DEATH  UNDREADED 

DEATH  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 
I  know  not  what  into  my  ear  : 

Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 


MEMORY 

THE  Mother  of  the  Muses,  we  are  taught, 
Is  Memory  :  she  has  left  me  ;  they  remain, 
And  shake  my  shoulder,  urging  me  to  sing 
About  the  summer  days,  my  loves  of  old. 
Alas  !  alas  I  is  all  I  can  reply. 
Memory  has  left  with  me  that  name  alone, 
Harmonious  name,  which  other  bards  may 

sing, 

But  her  bright  image  in  my  darkest  hour 
Comes  back,  in  vain  comes  back,  call'd  or 

uncall'd. 

Forgotten  are  the  names  of  visitors 
Ready  to  press  my  hand  but  yesterday  ; 
Forgotten  are  the  names  of  earlier  friends 
Whose  genial  converse  and  glad  counte 
nance 

Are  fresh  as  ever  to  mine  ear  and  eye  ; 
To  these,  when  I  have  written  and  besought 
Remembrance  of  me,  the  word  Dear  alone 
Hangs  on  the  upper  verge,  and  waits  in 

vain. 

A  blessing  wert  thou,  O  oblivion, 
If  thy  stream  carried  only  weeds  away, 
But  vernal  and  autumnal  flowers  alike 
It  hurries  down  to  wither  on  the  strand. 


FOR  AN   EPITAPH   AT    FIESOLE 

Lo  !  where  the  four  mimosas  blend  their 

shade 

In  calm  repose  at  last  is  Landor  laid  ; 
For   ere  he   slept    he   saw   them  planted 

here 

By  her  his  soul  had  ever  held  most  dear, 
And  he   had   liv'd   enough  when  he   had 

dried  her  tear. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


<£5corgc  SDariep 


THE   FLOWER   OF   BEAUTY 

SWEET  in  her  green  dell   the   flower  of 

beauty  slumbers, 
LulFd    by    the    faint    breezes     sighing 

through  her  hair  ; 
Sleeps  she,  and  hears  not  the  melancholy 

numbers 

Breath'd  to  my  sad  lute  amid  the  lonely 
air. 

Down  from  the  high  cliffs  the  rivulet  is 

teeming, 
To  wind  round  the  willow-banks  that  lure 

him  from  above  ; 
0   that,  in   tears   from   my   rocky   prison 

streaming, 
I,  too,  could  glide  to  the  bower  of  my  love  ! 

Ah,  where  the  woodbines  with  sleepy  arms 

have  wound  her, 
Opes  she  her  eyelids  at  the  dream  of  my 

lay, 
Listening,  like  the  dove,  while  the  fountains 

echo  round  her, 

To  her  lost  mate's  call  in  the  forests  far 
away. 

Come,  then,  my  bird  !  for  the  peace  thou 

ever  bearest, 
Still  Heaven's  messenger  of  comfort  to 

me  ; 
Come  !  this   fond  bosom,  my   faithfullest, 

my  fairest, 

Bleeds  with  its  death- wound -—  but  deeper 
yet  for  thee. 

SUMMER   WINDS 

UP  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 
O'er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly  ; 

Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 
Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  grassy-fringed  river 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep, 
Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 
At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 


While  aside  her  cheek  we  fre  rushing, 
Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 

Kissing  every  bud  we  pass,  — 
As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh  ; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we  're  at  our  play  again. 

SONGS  FROM  "SYLVIA;  OR, THE 
MAY  QUEEN" 


CHORUS   OF  SPIRITS 

GENTLY  !  —  gently  !  —  down  !  —  down  ! 

From  the  starry  courts  on  high, 
Gently  step  adown,  down 

The  ladder  of  the  sky. 

Sunbeam  steps  are  strong  enough 

For  such  airy  feet : 
Spirits,  blow  your  trumpets  rough, 

So  as  they  be  sweet ! 

Breathe  them  loud,  the  Queen  descending 
Yet  a  lowly  welcome  breathe, 

Like  so  many  flowerets  bending 
Zephyr's  breezy  foot  beneath. 

II 
MORNING-SONG 

AWAKE  thee,  my  Lady-love  ! 

Wake  thee,  and  rise  ! 
The  sun  through  the  bower  peeps 

Into  thine  eyes  1 


i8 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Behold  how  the  early  lark 

Springs  from  the  corn  ! 
Hark,  hark  how  the  flower-bird 

Winds  her  wee  horn  ! 

The  swallow's  glad  shriek  is  heard 

All  through  the  air  ; 
The  stock-dove  is  murmuring 

Loud  as  she  dare. 

Apollo's  wing'd  bugleman 

Cannot  contain, 
But  peals  his  loud  trumpet-call 

Once  and  again. 

Then  wake  thee,  my  Lady-love  ! 

Bird  of  my  bower  ! 
The  sweetest  and  sleepiest 

Bird  at  this  hour  1 


LADY  and 
No  pedlar 


III 
NEPHON'S  SONG 

ntlemen  fays,  come  buy  ! 
s  such  a  rich  packet  as  I. 


Who  wants  a  gown 

Of  purple  fold, 
Embroider'd  down 
The  seams  with  gold  ? 

See  here  !  —  a  Tulip  richly  laced 
To  please  a  royal  fairy's  taste  ! 

Who  wants  a  cap 
Of  crimson  grand  ? 


By  great  good  hap 
I  've  01 


one  on  hand  : 
Look,  sir  !  — a  Cock's-comb,  flowering 

red, 
'T  is  just  the  thing,  sir,  for  your  head  ! 

Who  wants  a  frock 

Of  vestal  hue  ? 
Or  snowy  smock  ?  — 
Fair  maid,  do  you  ? 

O  me  !  —  a  Ladysmock  so  white  I 
Your  bosom's  self  is  not  more  bright. 

Who  wants  to  sport 

A  slender  limb  ? 
I  've  every  sort 
Of  hose  for  him  : 

Both  scarlet,  striped,  and  yellow  ones  : 
This  Woodbine  makes  such  pantaloons ! 


Who  wants  —  (hush  !   hush  !) 

A  box  of  paint  ? 
'T  will  give  a  blush 
Yet  leave  no  taint : 

This  rose  with  natural  rouge  is  fill'd, 
From  its  own  dewy  leaves  distilFd. 

Then    lady    and    gentlemen    fays,    come 

buy! 
You  never  will    meet    such  a  merchant 

as  I! 


IV 


ROMANZO  TO  SYLVIA 

I'VE  taught  thee   Love's  sweet  lesson 

o'er, 
A  task  that  is  not  learn'd  with  tears  : 

Was  Sylvia  e'er  so  blest  before 
In  her  wild,  solitary  years  ? 

Then    what     does     be     deserve,    the 

Youth, 
Who  made  her  con  so  dear  a  truth  ! 

Till  now  in  silent  vales  to  roam, 
Singing  vain  songs  to  heedless  flowers, 
Or  watch  the  dashing  billows  foam, 
Amid  thy  lonely  myrtle  bowers, 

To   weave    light    crowns    of    various 

hue,  — 
Were  all  the  joys  thy  bosom  knew. 

The  wild  bird,  though  most  musical, 
Could  not  to  thy  sweet  plaint  reply  ; 

The  streamlet  and  the  waterfall 
Could  only  weep  when  thou  didst  sigh  ! 
Thou  couldst   not   change  one  dulcet 

word 
Either  with  billow,  or  with  bird. 

For  leaves  and  flowers,  but  these  alone, 
Winds  have  a  soft  discoursing  way  ; 

Heav'n's  starry  talk  is  all  its  own,  — 
It  dies  in  thunder  far  away. 

E'en   when   thou   wouldst   the    Moon 

beguile 
To  speak,  —  she  only  deigns  to  smile  ! 

Now,  birds  and  winds,  be  churlish  still, 
Ye  waters  keep  your  sullen  roar, 

Stars  be  as  distant  as  ye  will,  — 
Sylvia  need  court  ye  now  no  more  : 
In  Love  there  is  society 
She  never  yet  could  find  with  ye  ! 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


23rpan  JEaflcr  Procter 

("BARRY  CORNWALL") 


THE   SEA 

THE  sea  !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round  ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds  ;  it  mocks  the  skies  ; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'in  on  the  sea  !  I  'm  on  the  sea  ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be  ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go  ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  ?  /  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  O,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  belowf 
And  why  the  sou'west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  lov'd  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest  ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me  ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea  ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 

And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the   porpoise 

roll'd, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcom'd  to  life  the  ocean-child  ! 

I  Ve  liv'd  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range, 
But   never    have    sought    nor  sighed    for 

change  ; 

And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea  I 

THE   HUNTER'S   SONG 

RISE  !    Sleep  no  more  !  'T  is  a  noble  morn  : 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 


And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten 

hound, 

Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by, 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.  —  So,  ho  I 
I  'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 
Hark,  hark  I  —  Who  calleth  the  maiden 

Morn 

From  her  sleep  in  the  woods  and   the 
stubble  corn  ? 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 
The  merry,  sweet  ring  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

Now,  thorough  the  copse,  where  the  fox  is 

found, 

And  over  the  stream,  at  a  mighty  bound, 
And  over  the  high  lands,  and  over  the  low, 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go  ! 
Away  !  —  as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  its  prey, 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away,  —  away  I 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun, 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and  —  the  day  is 

done  ! 
Hark,  hark  !  —  What  sound  on  the  wind 

is  borne  f 

'Tis  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter1 3 
horn. 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  f 
The  merry,  bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

Sound  !     Sound  the  horn  !     To  the  hunter 

good 

What's  the  gulley  deep  or  the  roaring  flood? 
Right  over   he   bounds,  as   the  wild   stag 

bounds, 

At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
O,  what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack, 
When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back, 
With   his   stirrups   short,  and  his   snaffle 

strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning 

song? 
Hark,  hark  /  —  Now,  home  I  and  dream 

till  mom 

Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter'i 
horn! 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  I 
0,  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter** 
horn! 


20 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE 

How  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 
Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours. 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loth, 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves  ; 
Some  fears,  —  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known  ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ;  — 

All  else  is  flown  ! 

Ah  !  — With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  Spring ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  Time  ! 


THE   STORMY   PETREL 

A  THOUSAND  miles  from  land  are  we, 
Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea  ; 
From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 
Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast : 
The  sails  are  scatter'd  abroad,  like  weeds, 
The   strong   masts    shake   like    quivering 

reeds, 

The  mighty  cables,  and  iron  chains, 
The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, 
They  strain  and  they  crack,  and  hearts  like 

stone 
Their  natural  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !     Up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's 

crown, 

And  midst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 
The  Stormy  Petrel  finds  a  home,  — 
A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be, 
For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 
On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 
And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 


To  warm    her  young,  and   to  teach  them 

spring 
At    once  o'er   the  waves  on   their  stormy 

wing. 

O'er  the  Deep  !     O'er  the  Deep  ! 

Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the 

sword-fish  sleep, 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  Petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storms  un 
heard  ! 

Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet,  of  good  or  ill, 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth 

still : 

Yet  he  ne'er  falters  :  —  So,  Petrel !  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy 
wing! 


PEACE !  WHAT  DO  TEARS  AVAIL  ? 

PEACE  !  what  do  tears  avail  ? 
She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale, 

And  from  her  eye 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading, 

And  she  must  die  ! 

Why  looks  the  lover  wroth  ?  the  friend  up 
braiding  ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
'Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  wrong  ? 

Then,  why  not  die  ? 
Why  suffer  again  her  doom  of  sorrow, 

And  hopeless  lie  ? 

Why  nurse  the  trembling  dream  until  to 
morrow  ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Death  !     Take  her  to  thine  arms, 
In  all  her  stainless  charms, 

And  with  her  fly 

To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  bright 
ness, 

The  Angels  lie. 
Wilt  bear  her  there,  O  Death  !  in  all  hex 

whiteness  ? 
Reply,  reply ! 

LIFE 

WE  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 
We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 


BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER 


21 


Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live,  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  I  ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die  ? 

We  toil,  —  through  pain  and  wrong  ; 

We  fight,  — and  fly  ; 
We  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
O  life  !  is  all  thy  song 

"  Endure  and  —  die  "  ? 

THE    BLOOD   HORSE 

GAMARRA  is  a  dainty  steed, 
Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 
Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 
Witli  all  his  line  of  fathers  known  ; 
Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 
But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within  I 
His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 
And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look,  —  how  'round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ! 

Sinewy  strength  is  on  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins  ; 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire,  — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself  ! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn  : 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine  ! 

And  yet,  —  he  was  but  friend  to  one 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun, 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green  : 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  liv'd,  —  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day,)  — 


And  died  untam'd  upon  the  sands 
Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands  t 


SIT   DOWN,  SAD   SOUL 

SIT  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 

The  moments  flying : 
Come,  —  tell  the  sweet  amount 

That 's  lost  by  sighing  ! 
How  many  smiles  ?  —  a  score  ? 
Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more  ; 
For  day  is  dying. 

Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep, 

And  no  more  measure 
The  flight  of  Time,  nor  weep 

The  loss  of  leisure  ; 
But  here,  by  this  lone  stream, 
Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 
Of  starry  treasure. 

We  dream  :  do  thou  the  same  : 

We  love  —  for  ever ; 
We  laugh  ;  yet  few  we  shame, 

The  gentle,  never. 
Stay,  then,  till  Sorrow  dies  ; 
Then  —  hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  for  ever  ! 

GOLDEN-TRESSED   ADELAIDE 

SING,  I  pray,  a  little  song, 

Mother  dear  ! 
Neither  sad  nor  very  long  : 
It  is  for  a  little  maid, 
Golden-tressed  Adelaide  ! 
Therefore  let  it  suit  a  merry,  merry  ear, 

Mother  dear ! 

Let  it  be  a  merry  strain, 

Mother  dear ! 

Shunning  e'en  the  thought  of  pain  : 
For  our  gentle  child  will  weep, 
If  the  theme  be  dark  and  deep  ; 
And  we  will  not  draw  a  single,  single  tear, 

Mother  dear ! 

Childhood  should  be  all  divine, 

Mother  dear ! 

And  like  an  endless  summer  shine  ; 
Gay  as  Edward's  shouts  and  cries, 
Bright  as  Agnes'  azure  eyes  : 
Therefore,  bid  thy  song  be  merry  :  —  dost 
thou  hear, 

Mother  dear  ? 


22 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


A   POET'S   THOUGHT 

TELL  me,  what  is  a  poet's  thought  ? 

Is  it  on  the  sudden  born  ? 
Is  it  from  the  starlight  caught  ? 
Is  it  by  the  tempest  taught, 

Or  by  whispering  morn  ? 

Was  it  cradled  in  the  brain  ? 

Chain'd  awhile,  or  nurs'd  in  night  ? 
Was  it  wrought  with  toil  and  pain  ? 
Did  it  bloom  and  fade  again, 

Ere  it  burst  to  light  ? 

No  more  question  of  its  birth  : 

Rather  love  its  better  part ! 

*T  is  a  thing  of  sky  and  earth, 

Gathering  all  its  golden  worth 

From  the  Poet's  heart. 


A   PETITION   TO   TIME 

TOUCH  us  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  -» 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead.) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We  've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings  : 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ;  — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 


Cfjarieg 


FROM   "JOSEPH   AND   HIS 
BRETHREN  " 

RACHEL 

RACHEL,  the  beautiful  (as  she  was  call'd), 
Despis'd  our  mother  Leah,  for  that  she 
Was  tender-ey'd,  lean-favor'd,  and  did  lack 
The  pulpy  ripeness  swelling  the  white  skin 
To  sleek  proportions  beautiful  and  round, 
With  wrinkled  joints  so  fruitful  to  the  eye. 
All  this  Is  fair  :  and  yet  we  know  it  true 
That  'neath  a  pomane  breast  and  snowy  side 
A  heart  of  guile  and  falsehood  may  be  hid, 
As  well  as  where  the  soil  is  deeper  tinct. 
So  here  with  this  same  Rachel  was  it  found  : 
The  dim  blue-laced  veins  on  either  brow, 
Neath  the  transparent  skin  meandering, 
That  with  the  silver-leaved  lily  vied  ; 
Her  full  dark  eye,  whose  brightness  glis- 

ten'd  through 

The  sable  lashes  soft  as  camel-hair  ; 
Her  slanting  head  curv'd  like  the  maiden 

moon 

And  hung  with  hair  luxuriant  as  a  vine 
And  blacker  than  a  storm  ;  her  rounded  ear 
Turn'd  like  a  shell  upon  some  golden  shore  ; 
Her  whispering  foot  that  carried  all  her 

weight, 


Nor  left  its  little  pressure  on  the  sand  ; 
Her  lips  as  drowsy  poppies,  soft  and  red, 
Gathering  a  dew  from  her  escaping  breath  j 
Her   voice  melodious,   mellow,  deep,  and 

clear, 

Lingering  like  sweet  music  in  the  ear  ; 
Her  neck  o'ersoften'd  like  to  unsunu'd  curd; 
Her  tapering  lingers  rounded  to  a  point ; 
The  silken  softness  of  her  veined  hand  ; 
Her  dimpled  knuckles  answering  to  her 

chin  ; 

And  teeth  like  honeycombs  o'  the  wilder 
ness  : 

All  these  did  tend  to  a  bad  proof  in  her. 
For  armed  thus  in  beauty  she  did  steal 
The  eye  of  Jacob  to  her  proper  self, 
Engross'd  his  time,  and  kept  him  by  hep 

side, 

Casting  on  Leah  indifference  and  neglect ; 
Whereat  great  Heaven  took  our  mother's 

part 

And  struck  young  Rachel  with  a  barrenness, 
While  she  bore  children :  thus  the  matter 

went ; 

Till  Rachel,  feeling  guilty  of  her  fault, 
Turn'd  to  some  penitence,  which  Heaven 

heard  ; 
And  then  she  bore  this  Joseph,  who  must, 

and  does, 


CHARLES  JEREMIAH  WELLS 


Inherit  towards  the  children  all  the  pride 
And   scorn    his   mother   had   towards  our 

mother  : 
Wherefore  he  suffers  in  our  just  rebuke. 

PHRAXANOR    TO   JOSEPH 

Phrax.     Oh  I  ignorant  boy,  it  is  the  secret 

hour, 
The  sun  of   love  doth  shine  most   goodly 

fair. 

Contemptible  darkness  never  yet  did  dull 
The  splendor  of  love's  palpitating  light. 
At  love's  slight  curtains,  that  are  made  of 

sighs, 

Though  e'er  so  dark,  silence  is  seen  to  stand 
Like  to  a  flower  closed  in  the  night  ; 
Or,  like  a  lovely  image  drooping  down 
With  its  fair  head  aslant  and  finger  rais'd, 
And  mutely  on  its  shoulder  slumbering. 
Pulses  do  sound  quick  music  in  Love's  ear, 
And  blended  fragrance  in  his  startled  breath 
Doth  hang  the  hair  with  drops  of  magic  dew. 
All  outward  thoughts,  all  common  circum 
stance, 

Are  buried  in  the  dimple  of  his  smile  : 
And  the  great  city  like  a  vision  sails 
From  out  the  closing  doors  of  the  hush'd 

mind. 

His  heart  strikes  audibly  against  his  ribs 
As  a  dove's  wing  doth  freak  upon  a  cage, 
Forcing  the  blood  athro'  the  cramped  veins 
Faster  than  dolphins  do  o'ershoot  the  tide 
Cours'd  by  the  yawning  shark.     Therefore 

I  say 
Night-blooming  Cereus,  and  the  star-flower 

sweet, 

The  honeysuckle,  and  the  eglantine, 
And  the  ring'd  vinous  tree  that  yields  red 

wine, 

Together  with  all  intertwining  flowers, 
Are   plants   most  fit  to  ramble  o'er  each 

other, 

And  form  the  bower  of  all-precious  Love, 
Shrouding  the  sun  with  fragrant  bloom  and 

leaves 

From  jealous  interception  of  Love's  gaze. 
This  is  Love's  cabin  in  the  light  of  day, 
But   oh  !   compare   it  not  with  the  black 

night; 

Delay  thou  sun,  and  give  me  instant  night  — 
Its  soft,  mysterious,  and  secret  hours  ; 
The  whitest  clouds  are  pillows   to  bright 

stars, 
&h  !  therefore  shroud  thine  eyes. 


THE   PATRIARCHAL   HOME 

Joseph.     Still   I   am  patient,   tho'  you're 

merciless. 

Yet  to  speak  out  my  mind,  I  do  avouch 
There  is  no  city  feast,  nor  city  show, 
The  encampment  of  the  king  and  soldiery. 
Rejoicings,  revelries,  and  victories, 
Can  equal  the  remembrance  of  my  home 
In  visible  imagination. 
Even  as  he  was  I  see  my  father  now, 
His  ^rave  and  graceful  head's  benignity 
Musing  beyond  the  confines  of  this  world, 
His  world  within  with  all  its  mysteries. 
What  pompless  majesty  was  in  his  mien, 
An  image  of  integrity  creates, 
Pattern  of  nature,  in  perfection. 
Lo  !  in  the  morning  when  we  issued  forth, 
The  patriarch  surrounded  by  his  sons, 
Girt  round  with  looks  of  sweet  obedience, 
Each  struggling  who  should  honor  him  the 

most ; 
While   from  the  wrinkles  deep  of  many 

years, 

Enfurrow'd  smiles,  like  violets  in  snow, 
Touch'd  us  with  heat  and  melancholy  cold, 
Mingling  our  joy  with  sorrow  for  his  age  : 
There  were  my  brothers,  habited  in  skins  ; 
Ten  goodly  men,  myself,  and  a  sweet  youth 
Too  young  to  mix  in  anything  but  joy  ; 
And  in  his  hands  each  led  a  milk-white 

steer, 

Hung  o'er  with  rpses,  garlanded  with  flow 
ers, 
Laden   with   fragrant   panniers   of    green 

boughs 

Of  bays  and  myrtle  interleav'd  with  herbs, 
Wherein  was  stor'd  our  country  wine  and 

fruit, 
And  bread  with  honey  sweeten'd,  and  dried 

figs, 

And  pressed  curds,  and  choicest  rarities, 
Stores  of  the  cheerless  season  of  the  year  ; 
While  at  our  sides  the  women  of  our  tribe, 
With  pitchers  on  their  heads,  fill'd  to  the 

brim 
With  wine,  and  honey,  and  with  smoking 

milk, 
Made  proud  the  black-ey'd  heifers  with  the 

swell 

Of  the  sweet  anthem  sung  in  plenty's  praise. 
Thus  would  we  journey  to  the  wilderness, 
And  fixing  On  some  peak  that  did  o'erlook 
The  spacious  plains  that  lay  display'd  be 
neath, 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Where  we  could  see  our  cattle,  like  to  specks 
In   the  warm   meads,  browsing   the   juicy 

grass, 
There  pitch  our  tent,  and  feast,  and  revel 

out,  — 

The  minutes  flying  faster  than  our  feet 
That  vaulted  nimbly  to  the  pipe  and  voice, 
Making  fatigue  more  sweet  by  appetite. 
There  stood  the  graceful  Reuben  by  my 

sire, 

Piping  a  ditty,  ardent  as  the  sun, 
And,  like  him,  stealing  renovation 
Into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  soul, 
And  filling  it  with  light.     There,  women 

group'd, 

My  sisters  and  their  maids,  with  ears  sub 
dued, 

With  bosoms  panting  from  the  eager  dance, 
Against  each  other  lean'd  ;  as  I  have  seen 
A  graceful  tuft  of  lilies  of  the  vale 
Oppress'd  with  rain,  upon  each  other  bend, 
While  freshness  has  stol'n  o'er  them.    Some 

way  off 
My  brothers  pitch'd  the  bar,  or  plough'd  for 

fame. 
Each  two  with  their  two  heifers  harness'd 

fast 

Unto  the  shaft,  and  labor'd  till  the  sweat 
Had  crept  about  them  like  a  sudden  thaw. 
Anon  they  tied  an  eagle  to  a  tree, 
And  strove  at  archery  ;  or  with  a  bear 
Struggled   for  strength   of  limb.      These 

were  no  slaves  —    . 
No  villain's  sons  to  rifle  passengers. 
The  sports  being  done,  the  winners  claim'd 

the  spoil  : 

Or  hide,  or  feather,  or  renowned  bow, 
Or  spotted  cow,  or  fleet  and  pamper'd  horse. 
And  then  my  father  bless'd  us,  and  we  sang 
Our  sweet  way  home  again.     Oft  I  have 

ach'd 

In  memory  of  these  so  precious  hours, 
And  wept  upon  those  keys  that  were  my 

pride, 

And  soak'd  my  pillow  thro'  the  heavy  night. 
Alas  !     God  willing,  I  '11  be  patient  yet. 

THE  TRIUMPH   OF  JOSEPH 

In  the  royal  path 
Came  maidens  rob'd  in  white,  enchain'd  in 

flowers, 
Sweeping  the  ground  with  incense-scented 

palms  : 
Then  came  the  sweetest  voices  of  the  land, 


And  cried,  '  Bow  ye  the  knee  ! '  —  and  then 

aloud 

Clarions  and  trumpets  broke  forth  in  the  air: 
After  a  multitude  of  men-at-arms, 
Of  priests,  of  officers,  and  horsed  chiefs, 
Came  the  benignant  Pharaoh,  whose  great 

pride 

Was  buried  in  his  smile.    I  did  but  glimpse 
His  car,  for  't  was  of  burnish'd  gold.     No 

eye 

Save  that  of  eagles  could  confront  the  blaze 
That  seem'd  to  burn  the  air,  unless  it  fell 
Either  on  sapphire  or  carbuncle  huge 
That  riveted  the  weight.      This  car   was 

drawn 

By  twelve  jet  horses,  being  four  abreast, 
And  pied  in  their  own  foam.     Within  the 

car 
Sat    Pharaoh,  whose   bare   head   was   girt 

around 

By  a  crown  of  iron  ;  and  his  sable  hair, 
Like  strakey  as  a  mane,  fell  where  it  would, 
And  somewhat  hid  his  glossy  sun-brent  neck 
And  carcanet  of  precious  sardonyx. 
His  jewell'd  armlets,  weighty  as  a  sword, 
Clasp'd  his  brown  naked  arms  —  a  crimson 

robe, 
Deep  edged  with  silver,  and  with  golden 

thread, 

Upon  a  bear-skin  kirtle  deeply  blush'd, 
Whose  broad  resplendent  braid  and  shield- 
like  clasps 
Were  boss'd  with  diamonds  large,  by  rubies 

fir'd, 

Like  beauty's  eye  in  rage,  or  roses  white 
Lit  by  the  glowing  red.     Beside  him  lay 
A  bunch  of  poppied  corn  ;  and  at  his  feet 
A  tamed  lion  as  his  footstool  crouch'd. 
Cas'd  o'er  in  burnish'd  plates  I,  hors'd,  did 

bear 

A  snow-white  eagle  on  a  silver  shaft, 
From  whence  great  Pharaoh's  royal  banner 

stream'd, 

An  emblem  of  his  might  and  dignity  ; 
And  as  the  minstrelsy  burst  clanging  forth, 
With  shouts  that  broke  like  thunder  from 

the  host, 

The  royal  bird  with  kindred  pride  of  power 
Flew  up  the  measure  of  his  silken  cord, 
And  arch'd  his  cloud-like  wings  as  he  would 

mount, 

And  babble  of  this  glory  to  the  sun. 
Then  follow'd  Joseph  in  a  silver  car, 
Drawn  by  eight  horses,  white  as  evening 

clouds  : 


SIR   HENRY   TAYLOR 


1 1  His  feet  were  resting  upon  Pharaoh's  sword ; 
And  on  his  head  a  i-rown  of  drooping  corn 
Moc-k'd  that  of  Ceres  in  high  holiday. 
His  robes  were  simple,  but  were  full  of 

grace, 
And  (out  of  love  and  truth  I  speak  him 

thus) 


I  never  did  behold  a  man  less  proud, 
More  dignified  or  grateful  to  admire. 
His  honors  nothing  teas'd  him  from  him 
self; 

And  he  but  fill'd  his  fortunes  like  a  man 
Who  did  intend  to  honor  them  as  much 
As  they  could  honor  him- 


€aplor 


FROM  "PHILIP  VAN  ARTE- 
VELDE" 

JOHN  OF  LAUNOY 

I  NEVER  look'd  that  he  should  live  so  long. 
He  was  a  man  of  that  unsleeping  spirit, 
He  seem'd  to  live  by  miracle  :  his  food 
Was  glory,  which  was  poison  to  his  mind 
And  peril  to  his  body.     He  was  one 
Of  many  thousand  such  that  die  betimes, 
Whose  story  is  a  fragment,  known  to  few. 
Then  comes  the  man  who  has  the  luck  to  live, 
And  he  's  a  prodigy.     Compute  the  chances, 
And  deem  there  's  ne'er  a  one  in  dangerous 

times 

Who  wins  the  race  of  glory,  but  than  him 
A  thousand  men  more  gloriously  endow'd 
Have  fallen  upon  the  course  ;  a  thousand 

others 
Have  had  their  fortunes  founder'd   by  a 

chance, 
Whilst  lighter  barks  push'd  past  them  ;  to 

whom  add 
A  smaller  tally,  of  the  singular  few 
Who,  gifted  with  predominating  powers, 
Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep  the 

peace. 
Hie  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest 

men. 

REVOLUTIONS 

;r|  There  was  a  time,  so  ancient  records  tell, 
There  were  communities,  scarce  known  by 

name 
In  these   degenerate  days,  but  once   far- 

fam'd, 

Where  liberty  and  justice,  hand  in  hand, 
Order'd  the  common  weal ;    where  great 

men  grew 


Up  to  their  natural  eminence,  and  none, 
Saving  the  wise,  just,  eloquent,  were  great ; 
Where  power  was  of  God's  gift,  to  whom 

he  gave 

Supremacy  of  merit,  the  sole  means 
And  broad   highway  to  power,  that   ever 

then 

Was  meritoriously  administer'd, 
Whilst  all  its  instruments  from  first  to  last, 
The  tools  of  state  for  service  high  or  low, 
Were  chosen  for  their  aptness  to  those  ends 
Which  virtue  meditates.       To  shake    the 

ground 
Deep-founded    whereupon    this    structure 

stood, 

Was  verily  a  crime  ;  a  treason  it  was, 
Conspiracies  to  hatch  against  this  state 
And  its  free  innocence.     But  now,  I  ask, 
Where  is  there  on  God's  earth  that  polity 
Which  it  is  not,  by  consequence  converse, 
A  treason  against  nature  to  uphold  ? 
Whom  may  we  now  call  free  ?  whom  great? 

whom  wise  ? 

Whom  innocent  ?  the  free  are  only  they 
Whom  power  makes  free  to  execute  all  ills 
Their  hearts'  imagine  ;  they  alone  are  great 
Whose  passions  nurse  them  from  their  cra 
dles  up 

In  luxury  and  lewdness,  —  whom  to  see 
Is  to  despise,  whose  aspects  put  to  scorn 
Their  station's  eminence  ;  the  wise,  they 

only 

Who  wait  obscurely  till  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Shall  break  upon  the  land,  and  give  them 

light 

Whereby  to  walk  ;  the  innocent,  —  alas  ! 
Poor  innoceucy  lies  where  four  roads  meet, 
A   stone  upon    her  head,  a  stake    driven 

through  her, 

For  who  is  innocent  that  cares  to  live  ? 
The  hand  of  power  doth  press  the  very  life 
Of  innocency  out  !     What  then  remains 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


But  in  the  cause  of  nature  to  stand  forth, 
And  turn  this  frame  of  things  the  right  side 

up? 
For  this  the   hour  is  come,  the   sword  is 

drawn, 
And  tell  your  masters  vainly  they  resist. 

SONG 

Down  lay  in  a  nook  my  lady's  brach, 
And  said  —  my  feet  are  sore, 

J  cannot  follow  with  the  pack 
A  hunting  of  the  boar. 

And  though  the  horn  sounds  never  so  clear 
With  the  hounds  in  loud  uproar, 

Yet  I  must  stop  and  lie  down  here, 
Because  my  feet  are  sore. 

The  huntsman  when  he  heard  the  same, 

What  answer  did  he  give  ? 
The  dog  that 's  lame  is  much  to  blame, 

He  is  not  fit  to  live. 

SONG 

Quoth  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  heart  of  neither  wife  nor  maid, 

Lead  we  not  here  a  jolly  life 

Betwixt  the  shine  and  shade  ? 

Quoth  heart  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  tongue  of  neither  wife  nor  maid, 

Thou  wag'st,  but  I  am  worn  with  strife, 
And  feel  like  flowers  that  fade. 

PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVELDE 

Dire  rebel  though  he  was, 
Yet  with  a  noble  nature  and  great  gifts 
Was    he    endow'd,  —  courage,    discretion, 

wit, 

An  equal  temper,  and  an  ample  soul, 
Rock-bound  and  fortified  against  assaults 
Of  transitory  passion,  but  below 
Built  on  a  surging  subterranean  fire 
That  stirr'd  and  lifted  him  to  high  attempts. 
So  prompt  and  capable,  and  yet  so  calm, 
He  nothing  lack'd  in  sovereignty  but  the 

right, 

Nothing  in  soldiership  except  good  fortune. 
Wherefore  with  honor  lay  him  in  his  grave, 
And  thereby  shall  increase  of  honor  come 
Unto  their  arms  who  vanquish'd  one  so  wise, 
So  valiant,  so  renown'd. 


FROM   "EDWIN    THE   FAIR" 

THE    WIND    IN    THE    PINES 

THE  tale  was  this  : 

The  wind,  when   first  he    rose    and  went 

abroad 
Through  the  waste  region,  felt  himself  at 

fault, 

Wanting  a  voice  ;  and  suddenly  to  earth 
Descended  with  a  wafture  and  a  swoop, 
Where,  wandering  volatile  from  kind  to 

kind, 

He  woo'd  the  several  trees  to  give  him  one. 
First  he  besought  the  ash  ;  the  voice  she  lent 
Fitfully  with  a  free  and  lashing  change 
Flung  here  and  there  its  sad  uncertainties  : 
The  aspen  next ;  a  flutter'd  frivolous  twit 
ter 

Was  her  sole  tribute  :  from  the  willow  came, 
So  long  as  dainty  summer  dress'd  her  out, 
A  whispering  sweetness,  but  her  winter  note 
Was  hissing,  dry,  and  reedy  :  lastly  the  pine 
Did  he  solicit,  and  from  her  he  drew 
A  voice  so  constant,  soft,  and  lowly  deep, 
That  there  he  rested,  welcoming  in  her 
A  mild  memorial  of  the  ocean-cave 
Where  he  was  born. 


A   CHARACTERIZATION 

His  life  was  private  ;  safely  led,  aloof 
From  the  loud  world,  —  which  yet  he  under 
stood 

Largely  and  wisely,  as  no  worldling  could. 
For  he,  by  privilege  of  his  nature  proof 
Against  false  glitter,  from  beneath  the  roof 
Of  privacy,  as  from  a  cave,  survey'd 
With  steadfast  eye  its  flickering  light  and 

shade, 

And  gently  judged  for  evil  and  for  good. 
But  whilst  he  mix'd  not  for  his  own  behoof 
In  public  strife,  his  spirit  glow'd  with  zeal. 
Not  shorn  of  action,  for  the  public  weal,  — 
For  truth  and  justice  as  its  warp  and  woof. 
For  freedom  as  its  signature  and  seal. 
His  life,  thus  sacred  from  the  world,  dis 
charged 

From  vain  ambition  and  inordinate  care, 
In  virtue  exercis'd,  by  reverence  rare 
Lifted,  and  by  humility  enlarged, 
Became  a  temple  and  a  place  of  prayer. 
In  latter  years  he  walk'd  not  singly  there  ; 


LORD   MACAULAY 


For  one  was  with  him,  ready  at  all  hours 
His  griefs,  his  joys,  his  inmost  thoughts  to 

share, 

Who  buoyantly  his  burthens  help'd  to  bear, 
And  deck'd  his  altars  daily  with  fresh  flow 
ers. 
Lines  on  the  Hon.  Edward  Ernest  Villiers. 

ARETINA'S   SONG 

I  'M  a  bird  that 's  free 
Of  the  land  and  sea, 

I  wander  whither  I  will  ; 
But  oft  on  the  wing, 
I  falter  and  sing, 

Oh,  fluttering  heart,  be  still, 
Be  still, 

Oh,  fluttering  heart,  be  still  ! 

I'm  wild  as  the  wind, 
But  soft  and  kind, 

And  wander  whither  I  may  ; 
The  eyebright  sighs, 
And  says  with  its  eyes, 

Thou  wandering  wind,  oh  stay, 

Oh  stay, 
Thou  wandering  wind,  oh  stay  ! 

A  Sicilian  Summer. 

THE    HERO 

WHAT  makes  a  hero  ?  —  not  success,  not 

fame, 
Inebriate  merchants,  and  the  loud  acclaim 


Of  glutted  Avarice,  —  caps  toss'd  up  in 

air, 

Or  pen  of  journalist  with  flourish  fair  ; 
Bells  peal'd,  stars,  ribbons,  and  a  titulai 

name  — 
These,  though  his  rightful  tribute,  he  can 

spare  ; 

His  rightful  tribute,  not  his  end  or  aim, 
Or  true  reward  ;  for  never  yet  did  these 
Refresh  the   soul,  or  set  the   heart  at 

ease. 

What  makes  a  hero  ?  —  An  heroic  mind, 
Express'd  in  action,  in  endurance  prov'd. 
And  if  there  be  preeminence  of  right, 
Deriv'd  through  pain  well  suffer'd,  to  the 

height 

Of  rank  heroic,  't  is  to  bear  unmov'd, 
Not    toil,   not   risk,   not   rage   of    sea   or 

wind, 

Not  the  brute  fury  of  barbarians  blind, 
But  worse  —  ingratitude  and  poisonous 

darts, 
Launched  by  the  country  he  had  serv'd 

and  lov'd  : 

This,  with  a  free,  unclouded  spirit  pure, 
This,  in  the  strength  of  silence  to  endure, 
A  dignity  to  noble  deeds  imparts 
Beyond  the  gauds  and  trappings  of  re 
nown  ; 

This  is  the  hero's  complement  and  crown  ; 
This  miss'd,  one  struggle  had  been  want 
ing  still, 

One  glorious  triumph  of  the  heroic  will, 
One  self-approval  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 


Horti 

(THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY) 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY 


BY     OBADIAH-  BIND  -THEIR  -KINGS  -IN  - 

CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH- 

LINKS-OF-IRON,  SERGEANT  IN 

IRETON'S  REGIMENT 


OH  !  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph 

from  the  north, 
With  your  hands,  and  your  feet,  and  your 

raiment  all  red  ? 


And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a 

joyous  shout  ? 
And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press 

that  ye  tread  ? 

Oh  !  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the 

fruit, 
And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage 

that  we  trod  ; 
For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the 

haughty  and  the  strong, 
Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the 

saints  of  God, 


28 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of 
June; 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and  their 
cuirasses  shine, 

And  the  man  of  blood  was  there,  with  his 
long  essenced  hair, 

And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Ru 
pert  of  the  Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  bible 

and  his  sword, 
The  general  rode  along  us  to  form  us  for 

the  fight  ; 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and 

swell'd  into  a  shout 
Among   the   godless   horsemen   upon    the 

tyrant's  right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on 

the  shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging 

line  : 
For  God  !  for  the  cause  !  for  the  Church  ! 

for  the  laws  ! 
For  Charles,  king  of  England,  and  Rupert 

of  the  Rhine  ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clari 
ons  and  his  drums, 

His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  White 
hall  ; 

They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks  !  Grasp 
your  pikes  !  Close  your  ranks  ! 

For  Rupert  never  comes,  but  to  conquer,  or 
to  fall. 

They  are   here  —  they  rush   on  —  we   are 

broken  —  we  are  gone  — 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble 

on  the  blast. 
O  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !     O  Lord, 

defend  the  right  ! 
Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name  !  and 

fight  it  to  the  last ! 

Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound  —  the  centre 

hath  given  ground. 
Hark  !  hark  !  what   means  the   trampling 

of  horsemen  on  our  rear  ? 
Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys  ?     '  T  is  he  ! 

thank  God!  'tis  he,  boys  ! 
Bear  up  another  minute  !     Brave  Oliver  is 

here  ! 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points 
all  in  a  row  : 


Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge 

on  the  dikes, 
Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of 

the  Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scatter'd  the  forest  of 

his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe 

nook  to  hide 
Their  coward  heads,  predestin'd  to  rot  on 

Temple  Bar  ; 
And  he  —  he  turns  !  he  flies  !  shame  on 

those  cruel  eyes 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not 

look  on  war  ! 

Ho,  comrades  !  scour  the  plain  ;  and  ere  ye 

strip  the  slain, 
First  give  another  stab  to  make  your  search 

secure  ; 
Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their 

broad-pieces  and  lockets, 
The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the 

poor. 

Fools  !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and 

your  hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 
When  you  kiss'd  your  lily  hands  to  your 

lemans  to-day ; 
And   to-morrow   shall   the   fox   from    her 

chambers  in  the  rocks 
Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  about 

the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues,  that  late  mock'd 

at  heaven  and  hell  and  fate  ? 
And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with 

your  blades  ? 
Your  perfum'd  satin  clothes,  your  catches  i 

and  your  oaths  ? 
Your   stage-plays   and  your  sonnets,  your 

diamonds  and  your  spades  ? 

Down,  down,  for  ever  down  with  the  mitre  i 

and  the  crown, 
With  the  Belial  of  the  court,  and  the  Mam-  < 

mon  of  the  Pope  ! 
There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  wail 

in  Durham's  stalls  ; 
The   Jesuit   smites  his  bosom,  the   bishop* 

rends  his  cope. 

And  she  of  the  seven  hills  shall  mourn  her 

children's  ills, 
And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge 

of  England's  sword  j 


LORD   MACAULAY 


29 


And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder 

whrn  they  hear 
What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the 

Houses  and  the  Word! 


EPITAPH   ON   A  JACOBITE 

To  my  true  king  I  offer'd  free  from  stain 
and  faith  :  vain  faith,  and  courage 

vain. 
him,   I  threw  lands,  honors,  wealth, 

away, 
one  dear  hope,  that  was  more  priz'd 

than  they. 

him  I  languished  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Gray-hair'd  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's 

prime  ; 
Heard    on  Lavernia  ScargilPs  whispering 

trees, 

And  pin'd  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees  ; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fever'd  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to 

weep  ; 

Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting  place  I  ask'd,  an  early  grave. 
Oh  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless 

stone 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once 

mine  own, 

By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like 

thee, 

Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.   A  broken  heart  lies  here. 


IVRY 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  from  whom 

all  glories  are  ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign    liege,  King 

Henry  of  Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music 

and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny 

vines,  O  pleasant  land  of  France  ! 
And    thou,    Rochelle,    our   own  Rochelle, 

proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy 

mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous 

in  our  joy  ; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who 

wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 


Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turu'd 

the  chance  of  war  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !    for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of 

Navarre. 

Oh  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at 

the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out 

in  long  array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  ita 

rebel  peers, 
And  AppenzeFs    stout    infantry,  and  Eg- 

mont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the 

curses  of  our  land  ; 
And  dark   Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a 

truncheon  in  his  hand  ; 
And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of 

Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled 

with  his  blood  ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules 

the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry 

of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his 

armor  drest  ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon 

his  gallant  crest. 
He  look'-d  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was 

in  his  eye  ; 
He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance 

was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smil'd  on  us,  as  roll'd 

from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout :     God 

save  our  lord  the  king  ! 
"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full 

well  he  may, 
For  never  I  saw  promise  yet  of  such  a 

bloody  fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine 

amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet 

of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving.      Hark  to 

the  mingled  din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum, 

and  roaring  culveriu. 
The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint 

A m I iv's  plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Gueld«rs 

and  Alumyne. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND    DRAMATISTS 


Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentle 
men  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  —  upon  them 
with  the  lance  ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thou 
sand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  be 
hind  the  snow-white  crest  ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rush'd, 
while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blaz'd  the  hel 
met  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  prais'd,  the  day  is  ours  :  Ma- 
yenne  hath  turn'd  his  rein  ; 

D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter ;  the 
Flemish  count  is  slain. 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds 
before  a  Biscay  gale  ; 

The  field  is  heap'd  with  bleeding  steeds, 
and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and, 
all  along  our  van, 

Remember  Saint  Bartholomew  !  was  pass'd 
from  man  to  man. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry  —  "  No  French 
man  is  my  foe  : 

Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let 
your  brethren  go  :  " 

Oh  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friend 
ship  or  in  war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  sol 
dier  of  Navarre  ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who 
fought  for  France  to-day  ; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them 
for  a  prey. 


But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best 

in  fight  ; 
And  the  good  lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the 

cornet  white  — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white 

hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag 

of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high  ;  unfurl  it  wide  ;  —  that  all 

the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house 

which    wrought    His    Church   such 

woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound 

their  loudest  point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for 

Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  ;  ho  !  matrons 

Lucerne  — 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those 

who  never  shall  return. 
Ho  !  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican 

pistoles, 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for 

thy  poor  spearmen's  souls. 
Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that 

your  arms  be  bright  ; 
Ho  !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch 

and  ward  to-night  ; 
For  our  God  hath  crush'd  the  tyrant,  our 

God  hath  rais'd  the  slave, 
And  mock'd  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and 

the  valor  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom 

all  glories  are  ; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,King  Henry 

of  Navarre  ! 


ftirfjarfc 


FROM  "ORION  :  AN  EPIC  POEM" 

MEETING   OF   ORION   AND   ARTEMIS 

AFAR  the  hunt  in  vales  below  has  sped, 
But  now  behind  the  wooded  mount  ascends, 
Threading    its   upward   mazes    of    rough 

boughs, 

Moss'd  trunks  and  thickets,  still  invisible, 
Although  its  jocund  music  fills  the  air 


With  cries  and  laughing  echoes,  mellow'd 

all 
By  intervening  woods  and  the  deep  hills. 

The  scene  in  front  two  sloping  mountain 
sides 

Display'd  ;  in  shadow  one,  and  one  in  light 
The  loftiest  on  its  summit  now  sustain'd 
The  sun-beams,  raying  like  a  mighty  wheel 
Half  seen,  which  left  the  front-ward  sur 
face  dark 


RICHARD   HENGIST   HORNE 


In  its  full  breadth  of  shade  ;  the  coming  sun 
Hidden  as  yet  behind  :  the  other  mount, 
Slanting  oppos'd,  swept  with  an  eastward 

face, 
Catching  the  golden  light.     Now,  while  the 

peal 

Of  the  ascending  chase  told  that  the  rout 
Still  midway  rent  the  thickets,  suddenly 
Along  the  broad  and  sunny  slope  appear'd 
The  shadow  of  a  stag  that  fled  across, 
Follow'd  by  a  Giant's  shadow  with  a  spear  ! 

"Hunter  of    Shadows,   thou   thyself    a 

Shade," 

Be  comforted  in  this,  —  that  substance  holds 
No  higher  attributes  ;  one  sovereign  law 
Alike  develops  both,  and  each  shall  hunt 
Its  proper  object,  each  in  turn  commanding 
Tin-  primal  impulse,  till  gaunt  Time  become 
A  Shadow  cast  on  Space  —  to  fluctuate, 
Waiting  the  breath  of  the  Creative  Power 
To  give  new  types  for  substance  yet  un 
known  : 

So  from  f aiiit  nebulse  bright  worlds  are  born ; 
So  worlds  return  to  vapor.  Dreams  design 
Most  solid  lasting  things,  and  from  the  eye 
That  searches  life,  death  evermore  retreats. 

Substance  unseen,  pure  mythos,  or  mi 
rage, 
The  shadowy  chase  has  vanish'd  ;  round  the 

swell 
Of  the  near  mountain  sweeps  a  bounding 

stag  ; 

Round  whirls  a  god-like  Giant  close  behind  ; 
.O'er  a  fallen  trunk  the  stag  with  slippery 

hoofs 
Stumbles  —  his  sleek  knees    lightly  touch 

the  grass  — 
Upward  he  springs  —  but  in  his  forward 

leap, 

The  Giant's  hand  hath  caught  him  fast  be 
neath 

One  shoulder  tuft,  and,  lifted  high  in  air, 
Sustains !     Now   Phoibos'    chariot    rising 

bursts 

Over  the  summits  with  a  circling  blaze, 
Gilding  those  frantic  antlers,  and  the  head 
Of  that  so  glorious  Giant  in  his  youth, 
Who,  as  he  turns,  the  form  saccinct  beholds 
Of  Artemis,  —  her  bow,  with  points  drawn 

back, 

A  golden  hue  on  her  white  rounded  breast 
Reflecting,  while  the  arrow's  ample  barb 
Gleams  o'er  her  hand,  and  at  his  heart  is 
aim'd. 


The  Giant  lower'd  his  arm  —  away  the 

stag 

Breast  forward  plunged  into  a  thicket  near; 
The  Goddess  paus'd,  and  dropp'd  her  ar 
row's  point  — 

Rais'd  it  again  —  and  then  again  relax'd 
Her  tension,  and  while  slow  the  shaft  carae 

gliding 

Over  the  centre  of  the  bow,  beside 
Her  hand,  and  gently  droop'd,  so  did  the 

knee 

Of  that  heroic  shape  do  reverence 
Before  the  Goddess.     Their  clear  eyes  had 

ceas'd 

To  flash,  and  gaz'd  with  earnest  softening 
light. 

DISTRAUGHT  FOR   MEROPE. 

O  Meropd ! 

And  where  art  thou,  while  idly  thus  I  rave  ? 
Runs  there  no  hope  —  no  fever  through  thy 

veins, 
Like  that  which  leaps  and  courses  round 

my  heart  ? 

Shall  I  resign  thee,  passion-perfect  maid, 
Who  in  mortality's  most  finish'd  work 
Rank'st  highest  —  and  lov'st  me,  even  as  1 

love? 

Rather  possess  thee  with  a  tenfold  stress 
Of  love  ungovernable,  being  denied  J 
'Gainst  fraud  what  should  I  cast  down  in 

reply  ? 
What  but  a  sword,  since  force  must  do  me 

right, 
And  strength  was  given  unto  me  with  my 

birth, 

In  mine  own  hand,  and  by  ascendancy 
Over  my  giant  brethren.     Two  remain, 
Whom  prayers  to  dark  Hephaistos  and  my 

sire 

Poseidon,  shall  awaken  into  life  ; 
And  we  will  tear  up  gates,  and  scatter 

towers, 

Until  I  bear  off  Meropd.     Sing  on  ! 
Sing  on,  great  tempest !    in  the  darkness 

sing! 

Thy  madness  is  a  music  that  brings  calm 
Into  my  central  soul  ;  and  from  its  waves 
That  now  with  joy  begin  to  heave  and  gush, 
The  burning  Image  of  all  life's  desire, 
Like  an  absorbing  fire-breath'd  phantom- 
god, 
Rises  and  floats  !  —  here  touching  on  the 

foam, 
There  hovering  over  it ;  ascending  swift 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Starward,  then  swooping  down  the  hemi 
sphere 

Upon  the  lengthening  javelins  of  the  blast. 
Why  paus'd  I  in  the  palace-groves  to  dream 
Of  bliss,  with  all  its  substance  in  my  reach  ? 
Why  not  at  once,  with  thee  enfolded,  whirl 
Deep  down  the  abyss  of  ecstasy,  to  melt 
All  brain  and  being  where  no  reason  is, 
Or  else  the  source  of  reason  ?     But  the  roar 
Of  Time's  great  wings,  which  ne'er  had 

driven  me 

By  dread  events,  nor  broken-down  old  age, 
Back  on  myself,  the  close  experience 
Of  false  mankind,  with  whispers  cold  and 

dry 
As  snake-songs  midst  stone  hollows,  thus 

has  taught  me, 

The  giant  hunter,  laugh'd  at  by  the  world, 
Not  to  forget  the  substance  in  the  dream 
Which    breeds   it.     Both   must  melt  and 

merge  in  one. 

Now  shall  I  overcome  thee,  body  and  soul, 
And  like  a  new-made  element  brood  o'er 

thee 
With  all  devouring  murmurs  !     Come,  my 

love  ! 
Come,  life's  blood-tempest!  —  come,  thou 

blinding  storm, 
And   clasp   the   rigid   pine  —  this    mortal 

frame 
Wrap  with  thy  whirlwinds,  rend  and  wrestle 

down, 

And  let  my  being  solve  its  destiny, 
Defying,  seeking,  thine  extremest  power; 
Famish'd   and    thirsty   for   the   absorbing 

doom 

Of  that  immortal  death  which  leads  to  life, 
And  gives  a  glimpse  of  Heaven's  parental 

scheme. 

IN   FOREST   DEPTHS 

Within  the  isle,  far  from  the  walks  of 

men, 
Where  jocund  chase  was  never  heard,  nor 

hoof 

Of  Satyr  broke  the  moss,  nor  any  bird 
Sang,  save  at  times  the  nightingale  —  but 

only 

In  his  prolong'd  and  swelling  tones,  nor  e'er 
With  wild  joy  and  hoarse  laughing  melody, 
Closing  the  ecstasy,  as  is  his  wont,  — 
A  forest,  separate  and  far  withdrawn 
From  all  the  rest,  there  grew.     Old  as  the 

earth, 


Of  cedar  was  it,  lofty  in  its  glooms 
When  the  sun  hung  o'erhead,  and,  in  its 

darkness, 
Like  Night  when  giving  birth  to  Time' 

first  pulse. 

Silence  had  ever  dwelt  there  ;  but  of  late 
Came  faint  sounds,  with  a  cadence  droning 

low, 

From  the  far  depths,  as  of  a  cataract 
Whose  echoes  midst  incumbent  foliage  died. 
From  one  high  mountain  gush'd  a  flowing 

stream, 
Which  through  the  forest  pass'd,  and  found 

a  fall 
Within,    none    knew    where,    then  roll'd 

tow'rds  the  sea. 

There,   underneath    the    boughs,    mark 

where  the  gleam 
Of  sunrise  through  the  roofing's  chasm  is 

thrown 

Upon  a  grassy  plot  below,  whereon 
The  shadow  of  a  stag  stoops  to  the  stream 
Swift   rolling    tow'rds   the    cataract,   and 

drinks  deeply. 

Throughout  the  day  unceasingly  it  drinks, 
While  ever  and  anon  the  nightingale, 
Not  waiting   for   the   evening,  swells    his 

hymn  — 
His    one    sustain'd    and  heaven  -  aspiring 

tone  — 

And  when  the  sun  hath  vanish'd  utterly, 
Arm  over  arm  the  cedars  spread  their  shade, 
With    arching    wrist   and    long   extended 

hands, 
And  graveward  fingers  lengthening  in  the 

moon, 

Above  that  shadowy  stag  whose  antlers  still 
Hang  o'er  the  stream.     Now  came  a  rich-  \\ 

ton'd  voice 

Out  of  the  forest  depths,  and  sang  this  lay,    i 
With  deep  speech  intervall'd  and   tender    ! 

pause. 

"  If  we  have  lost  the  world  what  gain  is    j 

ours  ! 

Hast  thou  not  built  a  palace  of  more  grace 
Than  marble  towers  ?     These  trunks  are    ; 

pillars  rare, 

Whose  roof  embowers  with  far  more  gran 
deur.     Say, 

Hast  thou  not  found  a  bliss  with  Me  rope*, 
As  full  of  rapture  as  existence  new  ? 
'T  is  thus  with  me.     I  know  that  thou  art 
bless'd. 


RICHARD   HENGIST   HORNE 


33 


Our  inmost  powers,  fresh  wiug'd,  shall  soar 

and  dream 

In  realms  of  Klysian  gleam,  whose  air 
tight  —  tlowers, 
Will  ever  be,  though  vague,  most  fair,  most 

sweet, 

Better  than  memory.  —  Look  yonder,  love  ! 
What  solemn  hnage  through  the  trunks  is 

straying  ? 

And  now  he  doth  not  move,  yet  never  turns 
On  us  his  visage  of  rapt  vacancy  ! 
It  is  ( )blivion.   In  his  hand  —  though  nought 
Knows  he  of  this  —  a  dusky  purple  flower 
Droops  over  its  tall  stem.     Again,  ah  see  ! 
He  wanders  into  mist,  and  now  is  lost. 
Within   his   brain  what   lovely  realms   of 

death 
Are  pictur'd,  and  what  knowledge  through 

the  doors 

Of  his  forgetfulness  of  all  the  earth 
A  path  may  gain  ?     Then  turn  thee,  love, 

to  me  : 

Was  I  not  worth  thy  winning,  and  thy  toil, 
0  earth-born  son  of  Ocean  ?  Melt  to  rain." 

EOS 

Level   with   the   summit   of  that   eastern 

mount, 

By  slow  approach,  and  like  a  promontory 
Which  seems  to  glide  and  meet  a  coming 

ship, 

The  pale-gold  platform  of  the  morning  came 
Towards  the  gliding  mount.  Against  a  sky 
Of  delicate  purple,  snow-bright  courts  and 

halls, 
Touch'd  with  light  silvery  green,  gleaming 

across, 

Fronted  by  pillars  vast,  cloud-capitall'd, 
With  shafts  of  changeful  pearl,  all  rear'd 

upon 

An  isle  of  clear  aerial  gold,  came  floating  ; 
And  in  the  centre,  clad  in  fleecy  white, 
With  lucid  lilies  in  her  golden  hair, 
Eos,  sweet  Goddess  of  the  Morning,  stood. 

From  the  bright  peak  of  that  surrounded 

mount, 

One  step  sufficed  to  gain  the  tremulous  floor 
Whereon  the  palace  of  the  Morning  shone, 
Scarcely  a  bow-shot  distant  ;  but  that  step, 
Orion's  humbled  and  still  mortal  feet 
Dai  •  (1  not  adventure.  In  the  Goddess'  face 
Imploringly  he  gaz'd.  "Advance!"  she 
said, 


In  tones  more  sweet  than  when  some  hea 
venly  bird, 

Hid  in  a  rosy  cloud,  its  morning  hvmn 
Warbles  unseen,  wet  with  delicious  dews, 
And  to  earth's  flowers,  all  looking  up  in 

prayer, 

Tells  of  the  coming  bliss.     "  Believe  —  ad 
vance  ! 
Or,  as  the  spheres  move  onward  with  their 

song 

That  calls  me  to  awaken  other  lands, 
That  moment  will  escape  which  ne'er  re 
turns." 
Forward    Orion    stepp'd  :     the    platform 

bright 

Shook  like  the  reflex  of  a  star  in  water 
Mov'd  by  the  breeze,  throughout  its  whole 

expanse ; 

And  even  the  palace  glisten'd  fitfully, 
As  with  electric  shiver  it  sent  forth 
Odors  of  flowers  divine  and  all  fresh  life. 
Still  stood   he  where   he   stepp'd,  nor  to 

return 

Attempted.     To  essay  one  pace  beyond 
He  felt  no  power  —  yet  onward  he  advanced 
Safe  to  the  Goddess,  who,  with  hand  out- 

stretch'd, 
Into    the    palace,    led    him.     Grace    and 

strength, 

With  sense  of  happy  change  to  finer  earth, 
Freshness  of  nature,  and  belief  in  good, 
Came   flowing  o'er  his  soul,  and  he  was 
bless'd. 

'Tis  always  morning  somewhere  in  the 

world, 

And  Eos  rises,  circling  constantly 
The  varied  regions  of  mankind.     No  pause 
Of  renovation  and  of  freshening  rays 
She  knows,  but  evermore  her  love  breathes 

forth 

On  fiVld  and  forest,  as  on  human  hope, 
Health,  beauty,  power,  thought,  action,  and 

advance. 
All  this  Orion  witness'd,  and  rejoiced. 

AKINETOS 

'T  was  eve,  and  Time,  his  vigorous  course 

pursuing, 

Met  Akinetos  walking  by  the  sea. 
At  sight  of  him  the  Father  of  the  Hours 
Paus'd  on  the  sand,  —  which  shrank,  grew 

moist,  and  trembled 
At  that  unwonted  pressure  of  the  God. 


34 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


And  thus  with  look  and  accent  stern,  he 
spake  : 

"  Thou  art  the  mortal  who,  with  hand  un- 

mov'd, 

Eatest  the  fruit  of  others'  toil;  whose  heart 
Is  but  a  vital  engine  that  conveys 
Blood,  to  no  purpose,  up  and  down  thy  frame ; 
Whose  forehead  is  a  large  stone  sepulchre 
Of  knowledge  !  and  whose  life  but  turns  to 

waste 
My  measur'd   hours,  and  earth's  material 

mass!" 

Whereto  the  Great  Unmov'd  no  answer 

made, — 

And  Time  continued,  sterner  than  before  : 
"  O  not-to-be-approv'd  !  thou  Apathy, 
Who   gazest    downward   on    that   empty 

shell, — 

Is  it  for  thee,  who  bear'st  the  common  lot 
Of  man,  and  art  his  brother  in  the  fields, 
From  birth  to  funeral  pyre  ;  is  it  for  thee, 
Who  didst  derive  from  thy  long-living  sire 
More  knowledge  than  endows  far  better 

sons, 

Thy  lamp  to  burn  within,  and  turn  aside 
Thy  face  from  all  humanity,  or  behold  it 
Without  emotion,  like  some  sea-shell'd 

thing 

Staring  around  from  a  green  hollow'd  rock, 
Not  aiding,  loving,  caring — hoping  aught — 
Forgetting  Nature,  and  by  her  forgot  ?  " 

Whereto,  with  mildness,  Akinetos  said, 
"  Hast  thou  consider'd  of  Eternity  ?  " 
"  Profoundly  have  I  done  so,  in  my  youth," 
Chronos  replied,  and  bow'd  his  furrow'd 

head; 
"  Most,  when  my  tender  feet  from  Chaos 

trod 
Stumbling,— and,  doubtful  of  my  eyes,  my 

hands 
The  dazzling  air  explor'd.     But,  since  that 

date, 

So  many  ages  have  I  told  ;  so  many, 
Fleet  after  fleet  on  newly  opening  seas, 
Descry  before  me,  that  of  late  my  thoughts 
Have  rather  dwelt  on  all  around  my  path, 
With  anxious  care.     Well  were  it  thus  with 

thee." 

Then  Akinetos  calmly  spake  once  more, 
With  eyes  stUl  bent  upon  the  tide-ribb'd 

aarwlo   • 


"  And  dost  thou  of  To-morrow  also  think  ?  " 
Whereat,    as    one    dismay'd     by    sudden 

thought 
Of  many  crowding  things   that  call  him 

thence, 
Time,  with  bent  brows,  went  hurrying  on 

his  way. 

Slowtow'rdshiscavethe  Great  Unmov'd 

repair'd, 
And,  with  his  back  against  the  rock,  sat 

down 

Outside,  half  smiling  in  the  pleasant  air  ; 
And  in  the  lonely  silence  of  the  place 
He  thus,  at  length,  discours'd  unto  himself: 

"  Orion,  ever  active  and  at  work, 
Honest  and  skilful,  not  to  be  surpass'd, 
Drew  misery  on  himself  and  those  he  lov'd  ; 
Wrought  his  companions'  death, —  and  now 

hath  found, 

At  Artemis'  hand,  his  own.     So  fares  it  ever 
With  the  world's  builder.     He,  from  wall 

to  beam, 
From  pillar  to  roof,  from  shade  to  corporal 

form, 
From  the  first  vague  Thought  to  the  Temple 

vast, 

A  ceaseless  contest  with  the  crowd  endures, 
For  whom  he  labors.      Why  then  should 

we  move  ? 

Our  wisdom  cannot  change  whate'er  's  de 
creed, 
Nor  e'en  the  acts  or  thoughts  of  brainless 

men  : 
Why  then  be  mov'd  ?     Best  reason  is  most 

vain. 
He  who  will  do  and  suffer,  must  —  and 

end. 

Hence,  death  is  not  an  evil,  since  it  leads 
To  somewhat  permanent,  beyond  the  noise 
Man  maketh  on  the  tabor  of  his  will, 
Until  the  small  round  burst,  and  pale  he 

falls. 
His  ear  is  stuff'd  with  the  grave's  earth, 

yet  feels 

The  inaudible  whispers  of  Eternity, 
While  Time  runs  shouting  to  Oblivion 
'In  the  upper  fields  !     I  would  not  swell 

that  cry." 

Thus  Akinetos  sat  from  day  to  day, 
Absorb'd  in  indolent  sublimity, 
Reviewing  thoughts  and  knowledge  o'e* 
and  o'er ; 


RICHARD   HENGIST   HORNE 


35 


And  now  he  spake,  now  sang  unto  himself, 
Now  sank  to  brooding  silence.  From  above, 
While  passing,  Time  the  rock  touch'd  !  — 

and  it  ooz'd 
Petrific  drops  —  gently  at  first  —  and  slow. 
Reclining  lonely  in  his  fix'd  repose, 
The  Great  Unmov'd  unconsciously  became 
Attach'd  to  that  he  press'd, —  and  gradu 
ally  — 
While  his  thoughts  drifted  to  no  shore  —  a 

part 

O'  the  rock.     There  clung  the  dead  excres 
cence,  till 
Strong     hands,    descended    from     Orion, 

made 
Large  roads,  built  markets,  granaries,  and 

steep  walls, — 
Squaring  down  rocks  for  use,  and  common 
good. 


GENIUS 

FAR  out  at  sea  —  the  sun  was  high, 

While  veer'd  the  wind,  and  flapp'd  the 

sail  — 

We  saw  a  snow-white  butterfly 
Dancing  before  the  fitful  gale, 

Far  out  at  sea  ! 

The  little  wanderer,  who  had  lost 
His  way,  of  danger  nothing  knew ; 

Settled  awhile  upon  the  mast, 

Then  flutter'd  o'er  the  waters  blue, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Above,  there  gleam'd  the  boundless  sky  ; 

Beneath,  the  boundless  ocean  sheen  ; 
Between  them  danced  the  butterfly, 

The  spirit-life  of  this  vast  scene, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

The  tiny  soul  then  soar'd  away, 

Seeking  the  cloijds  on  fragile  wings, 

Lur'd  by  the  brighter,  purer  ray 

Which  hope's  ecstatic  morning  brings, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Away  he  sped  with  shimmering  glee  ! 
Scarce    seen  —  now    lost  —  yet    onward 

borne  ! 
Night  comes  !  —  with  wind  and  rain  —  and 

I          he 
No  more  will  dance  before  the  Morn, 
Far  out  at  sea. 


He  dies  unlike  his  mates,  I  ween  ; 

Perhaps  not  sooner,  or  worse  cross 'd  ; 
And  he  hath  felt,  thought,  known,  and  seen 

A  larger  life  and  hope  —  though  lost 

Far  out  at  sea  I 


PELTERS  OF  PYRAMIDS 

A  SHOAL  of  idlers,  from  a  merchant  craft 
Anchor'd  off  Alexandria,  went  ashore, 
And  mounting  asses  in  their  headlong  glee, 
Round  Pompey's  Pillar  rode  with  hoots  and 

taunts, 
As  men  oft  say,  "  What  art  thou  more  than 

we?" 

Next  in  a  boat  they  floated  up  the  Nile, 
Singing  and  drinking,  swearing  senseless 

oaths, 

Shouting,  and  laughing  most  derisively 
At  all  majestic  scenes.  A  bank  they  reach'd, 
And  clambering  up,  play'd  gambols  among 

tombs  ; 
And  in  portentous  ruins  (through  whose 

depths, 

The  mighty  twilight  of  departed  Gods, 
Both  sun  and  moon  glanced  furtive,  as  in 

awe) 
They  hid,  and  whoop'd,  and  spat  on  sacred 

things. 

At  length,  beneath  the  blazing  sun  they 

lounged 

Near  a  great  Pyramid.     Awhile  they  stood 
With  stupid  stare,  until  resentment  grew, 
In  the  recoil  of  meanness  from  the  vast ; 
And  gathering  stones,   they   with    coarse 

oaths  and  jibes 
(As  they  would  say,  "  What  art  thou  more 

than  we?")    . 

Pelted  the  Pyramid  !     But  soon  these  men, 
Hot   and    exhausted,   sat    them  down    to 

drink  — 
Wrangled,  smok'd,  spat,  and  laugh'd,  and 

drowsily 
Curs'd  the  bald  Pyramid,  and  fell  asleep. 

Night  came  :  —  a  little  sand  went  drift 
ing  by  — 

And  morn  again  was  in  the  soft  blue  hea 
vens. 

The  broad  slopes  of  the  shining  Pyramid 
Look'd  down  in  their  austere  simplicity 
Upon  the  glistening  silence  of  the  sands 
Whereon  no  trace  of  mortal  dust  was  seea 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


SOLITUDE  AND  THE  LILY 

THE  LILY 

I  BEND  above  the  moving  stream, 
And  see  myself  in  my  own  dream, — 

Hraven  passing,  while  I  do  not  pass. 
Something  divine  pertains  to  me, 
Or  I  to  it;  — reality 

Escapes  me  on  this  liquid  glass. 

SOLITUDE 

The  changeful  clouds  that  float  or  poise  on 

high, 

Emhlein  earth's  night  and  day  of  history  : 
Renew'd  for  ever,  evermore  to  die. 

Thy  life-dream  is  thy  fleeting  loveliness  ; 
But  mine  is  concentrated  consciousness, 
A  life  apart  from  pleasure  or  distress. 
The  grandeur  of  the  Whole 
Absorbs  my  soul, 
While  my  caves  sigh  o'er  human  littleness. 

THE  LILY 

Ah,  Solitude, 

Of  marble  Silence  fit  abode  ! 
I  do  prefer  my  fading  face, 
My  loss  of  loveliness  and  grace, 

With  cloud-dreams  ever  in  my  view  ; 
Also  the  hope  that  other  eyes 
May  share  my  rapture  in  the  skies, 
And,  if  illusion,  feel  it  true. 


THE  SLAVE 

A  SEA-PIECE,  OFF  JAMAICA 

BEFORE  us  in  the  sultry  dawn  arose 
Indigo-tinted  mountains  ;  and  ere  noon 
We  near'd  an  isle  that  lay  like  a  fes 
toon, 

And  shar'd  the  ocean's  glittering  repose. 

We  saw  plantations  spotted  with  white  huts ; 
Estates  midst  orange  groves  and  towering 
trees; 


Rich  yellow  lawns   embrown'd  by  soft 

degrees  ; 
Plots  of  intense  gold  freak'd  with  shady  nuts. 

A  dead  hot  silence  tranced  sea,  land,  and 

sky  : 

And  now  a  long  canoe  came  gliding  forth, 
Wherein  there  sat  an  old  man  fierce  and 

swarth, 

Tiger-faced,  black-fang'd,  and  with  jaun 
diced  eye. 

Pure  white,  with  pale  blue  chequer'd,  and 

red  fold 
Of  head-cloth   'neath   straw  brim,   this 

Master  wore  ; 
While  in  the  sun-glare  stood  with  high- 

rais'd  oar 
A  naked  Image  all  of  burnisli'd  gold. 

Golden  his  bones  —  high-valued  in  the  mart, 
His  minted  muscles,  and  his  glossy  skin  ; 
Golden  his  life  of  action  —  but  within 

The  slave  is  human  in  a  bleeding  heart. 


THE  PLOUGH 


A  LANDSCAPE  IN  BERKSHIRE 

ABOVE  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 

Thou  seest  the  dawn's  grave  orange  hue, 

With  one  pale  streak  like  yellow  sand, 
And  «ver  that  a  vein  of  blue. 

The  air  is  cold  above  the  woods  ; 

All  silent  is  the  earth  and  sky, 
Except  with  his  own  lonely  moods 

The  blackbird  holds  a  colloquy. 

Over  the  broad  hill  creeps  a  beam, 

Like  hope  that  gilds  a  good  man's  brow, 

And  now  ascends  the  nostril-stream 
Of  stalwart  horses  come  to  plough. 

Ye  rigid  Ploughmen,  bear  in  mind 
Your  labor  is  for  future  hours  ! 

Advance  —  spare  not  —  nor  look  behind  : 
Plough  deep  and  straight  with  all  your 
powers. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


37 


Cijomag  Hotodl 


FROM  "TORRISMOND" 

IN  A  GARDEN  BY  MOONLIGHT 

Veronica.     Come  then,  a  song  ;  a  winding 

gentle  song, 

To  lead  me  into  sleep.  Let  it  be  low 
As  zephyr,  telling  secrets  to  his  rose, 
For  1  would  hear  the  murmuring  of  my 

thoughts  ; 
And    more    of   voice    than  of    that  other 

music 
That  grows  around  the  strings  of  quivering 

lutes ; 
But  most  of  thought  ;  for  with  my  mind  I 

listen, 
And  when  the  leaves  of  sound  are  shed  upon 

it, 
If  there  's  no  seed  remembrance  grows  not 

there. 
So   life,   so  death  ;   a    song,   and   then   a 

dream  ! 

Begin  before  another  dewdrop  fall 
From   the   soft   hold   of    these    disturbed 

flowers, 

For  sleep  is  filling  up  my  senses  fast, 
And  from  these  words  I  sink. 

SONG 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  a  new-fall'n  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 

The  latest  flake  of  Eternity  : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  evening  rain, 
Unravell'd  from  the  tumbling  main, 

And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star  : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again. 

Elvira.     She  sees  no  longer  :  leave  her 

then  alone, 
Encompass'd    by   this   round    and    moony 

night. 

A  rose-leaf   for  thy   lips,  and  then  good 
night  : 

So  life,  so   death  ;  a  song,  and   then   a 
dream  ! 


DREAM-PEDLARY 

IF  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  parting  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sign, 

That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rung  the  bell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 

Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 

But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

111  didst  thou  buy  ; 
Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell, 

Waking,  to  die. 
Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 
Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise  ; 
And,  if  I  had  the  spell 
To  call  the  buried  well, 

Which  one  would  I  ? 

If  there  are  ghosts  to  raise, 

What  shall  I  call 
Out  of  hell's  murky  haze, 

Heaven's  blue  pall  ? 
Raise  my  lov'd  long-lost  boy 
To  lead  me  to  his  joy. 
There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise  ; 
Out  of  death  lead  no  ways  ; 

Vain  is  the  call. 

Know'st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue  ? 

No  love  thou  hast. 
Else  lie,  as  I  will  do, 

And  breathe  thy  last 
So  out  of  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fall  like  a  rose-leaf  down. 
Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo ; 
Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true. 

Ever  to  last  I 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


BALLAD  OF   HUMAN   LIFE 

.  we  wero  girl  and  boy  together, 

We  toss'd  about  the  flowers 

And  wreath'd  the  blushing  hours 
Into  a  posy  green  and  sweet. 

I  sought  the  youngest,  best, 

And  never  was  at  rest 
Till  I  had  laid  them  at  thy  fairy  feet. 
But  the  days  of  childhood  they  were  fleet, 

And  the  blooming  sweet-briar-breath'd 
weather, 

When  we  were  boy  and  girl  together. 

Then  we  were  lad  and  lass  together, 

And  sought  the  kiss  of  night 

Before  we  felt  aright,. 
Sitting  and  singing  soft  and  sweet.          t 

The  dearest  thought  of  heart 

With  thee  't  was  joy  to  part, 
And  the  greater  half  was  thine,  as  meet. 
Still  my  eyelid 's  dewy,  my  veins  they  beat 

At  the  starry  summer-evening  weather, 

When  we  were  lad  and  lass  together. 

And  we  are  man  and  wife  together, 
Although  thy  breast,  once  bold 
With  song,  be  clos'd  and  cold 
Beneath  flowers'  roots  and  birds'  light  feet. 
Yet  sit  I  by  thy  tomb, 
And  dissipate  the  gloom 
With  songs  of  loving  faith  and  sorrow  sweet. 
And  fate  and  darkling  grave  kind  dreams 

do  cheat, 
That,  while  fair  life,  young  hope,  despair 

and  death  are, 

;    We  're  boy  and  girl,  and  lass  and  lad,  and 
man  and  wife  together. 


SONGS   FROM   "DEATH'S    TEST- 
BOOK" 

I 

TO    SEA,    TO    SEA  ! 

To  sea,  to  sea  I     The  calm  is  o'er  ; 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
A.id  unseen  Mermaids'  pearly  song 
t/oines  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 

Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar  : 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er. 


To  sea,  to  sea  !  our  wide-wing'd  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark,        f 
Break  the  cav'd  Tritons'  azure  day, 

Like  mighty  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 
The  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  sea  ! 


II 


DIRGE 

IF  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 

Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep  ; 
And  not  a  sorrow 

Hang  any  tear  on  your  eye-lashes  ; 

Lie  still  and  deep, 
Sad  soul,  until  the  sea-wave  washes 
The  rim  o'  the  sun  to-morrow, 
In  eastern  sky. 

But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 

Then  die,  dear,  die  ; 
'Tis  deeper,  sweeter, 
Than  on  a  rose  bank  to  lie  dreaming 

With  folded  eye  ; 
And  then  alone,  amid  the  beaming 
Of  love's  stars,  thou  'It  meet  her 
In  eastern  sky. 

Ill 
ATHULF'S  DEATH  SONG 

A  CYPRESS-BOUGH,  and  a  rose-wreath  sweety 
A  wedding-robe,  and  a  winding-sheet, 

A  bridal-bed  and  a  bier. 
Thine  be  the  kisses,  maid, 

And  smiling  Love's  alarms  ; 
And  thou,  pale  youth,  be  laid 
In  the  grave's  cold  arms. 
Each  in  his  own  charms, 

Death  and  Hymen  both  are  here  j 
So  up  with  scythe  and  torch, 
And  to  the  old  church  porch, 
While  all  the  bells  ring  clear  : 
And  rosy,  rosy  the  bed  shall  bloom, 
And  earthy,  earthy  heap  up  the  toinb. 

Now  tremble  dimples  on  your  cheek, 
Sweet  be  your  lips  to  taste  and  speak, 
For  he  who  kisses  is  near  : 


THOMAS   LOVELL   BEDDOES 


39 


By  her  the  bridegod  fair, 

In  youthful  power  and  force  ; 
By  him  the  grizard  bare, 
Pale  knight  on  a  pale  horse, 
To  woo  him  to  a  corpse. 

Death  and  Hymen  both  are  here  ; 
So  up  with  scythe  and  torch, 
And  to  the  old  church  porch, 
While  all  the  bells  ring  clear  : 
And  rosy,  rosy  the  bed  shall  bloom, 
And  earthy,  earthy  heap  up  the  tomb. 

IV 
SECOND  DIRGE 

WE  do  lie  beneath  the  grass 

In  the  moonlight,  in  the  shade 
Of  the  yew-tree.     They  that  pass 
Hear  us  not.     We  are  afraid 
They  would  envy  our  delight, 
In  our  graves  by  glow-worm  night. 
Come  follow  us,  and  smile  as  we  ; 

We  sail  to  the  rock  in  the  ancient 

waves, 
Where  the  snow  falls  by  thousands  into  the 

sea, 

And  the  drown'd  and  the  shipwreck'd 
have  happy  graves. 


SONGS    FROM    "THE   BRIDES' 
TRAGEDY " 


HESPERUS  SINGS 

POOR  old  pilgrim  Misery, 

Beneath  the  silent  moon  he  sate, 
A-listening  to  the  screech  owl's  cry 

And  the  cold  wind's  goblin  prate  ; 
Beside  him  lay  his  staff  of  yew 

With  wither'd  willow  twin'd, 
His  scant  gray  hair  all  wet  with  dew, 

His  cheeks  with  grief  ybrin'd  ; 
And  his  cry  it  was  ever,  alack  ! 
Alack,  and  woe  is  me  ! 


Anon  a  wanton  imp  astray 

His  piteous  moaning  hears, 
And  from  his  bosom  steals  away 

His  rosary  of  tears  : 
With  his  plunder  fled  that  urchin  elf, 

And  hid  it  in  your  eyes ; 
Then  tell  me  back  the  stolen  pelf, 

Give  up  the  lawless  prize  ; 

Or  your  cry  shall  be  ever,  alack  I 
Alack,  and  woe  is  me  ! 

II 
LOVE  GOES  A-HAWKING 

A  HO  !  A  ho  ! 
Love's  horn  doth  blow, 
And  he  will  out  a-hawking  go. 
His  shafts  are  light  as  beauty's  sighs, 
And  bright  as  midnight's  brightest  eye$ 

And  round  his  starry  way 
The  swan-wing'd  horses  of  the  skies, 
With  summer's  music  in  their  manes, 
Curve  their  fair  necks  to  zephyr's  reins, 
And  urge  their  graceful  play. 

A  ho  !  A  ho  ! 
Love's  horn  doth  blow, 
And  he  will  out  a-hawking  go. 
The  sparrows  flutter  round  his  wrist, 
The  feathery  thieves  that  Venus  kist 
And  taught  their  morning  song, 
The  linnets  seek  the  airy  list, 
And  swallows  too,  small  pets  of  Spring, 
Beat  back  the  gale  with  swifter  wing, 
And  dart  and  wheel  along. 

A  ho  !  A  ho  ! 
Love's  horn  doth  blow, 
And  he  will  out  a-hawking  go. 
Now  woe  to  every  gnat  that  skips 
To  filch  the  fruit  of  ladies'  lips, 

His  felon  blood  is  shed  ; 
And  woe  to  flies,  whose  airy  ships 
On  beauty  cast  their  anchoring  bite, 
And  bandit  wasp,  that  naughty  wight, 
Whose  sting  is  slaughter-red. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


flo&crt 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN 
MEN 

A  GOOD  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true  ! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fix'd  the  where  and  when  ? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die  ? 
Here 's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why  ! 

Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he  : 
u  If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We  '11  set  Trelawny  free  ! 

«  We  '11  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay, 
With  '  one  and  all, '  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 

"  And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth  !  come  forth,  ye  cowards  all, 

Here  's  men  as  good  as  you  ! 

"  Trelawny  he  's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawny  he  may  die  ; 
But  here  's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold, 

Will  know  the  reason  why  !  " 

MAWGAN  OF  MELHUACH 

'TWAS  a  fierce  night  when  old  Mawgan 

died, 

Men  shudder'd  to  hear  the  rolling  tide  : 
The  wreckers  fled  fast  from  the  awful  shore, 
They  had  heard  strange  voices  amid   the 

roar. 

"Out  with  the  boat  there,"  some  one  cried,— 
"  Will  he  never  come  ?  we  shall  lose  the  tide : 
His^ berth  is  trim  and  his  cabin  stor'd, 
He 's  a  weary  long  time  coming  on  board." 

The  old  man  struggled  upon  the  bed  : 
He  knew  the  words  that  the  voices  said  ; 
Wildly  he  shriek'd  as  his  eyes  grew  dim, 
«  He  was  dead  !  he  was  dead  !  when  I  bur 
ied  him." 


Kark  yet  again  to  the  devilish  roar, 
"  He  was  nimbler  once  with  a  ship  on  shore  ; 
Come  !  come  !  old  man,  't  is  a  vain  delay, 
We  must  make  the  offing  by  break  of  day." 

Hard  was  the  struggle,  but  at  the  last, 
With  a  stormy  pang  old  Mawgan  past, 
And  away,  away,  beneath  their  sight, 
Gleani'd  the  red  sail  at  pitch  of  night. 

FEATHERSTONE'S    DOOM 

TWIST  thou  and  twine  !  in  light  and  gloom 

A  spell  is  on  thine  hand  ; 
The  wind  shall  be  thy  changeful  loom, 

Thy  web  the  shifting  sand. 

Twine  from  this  hour,  in  ceaseless  toil, 

On  Blackrock's  sullen  shore  ; 
Till  cordage  of  the  sand  shall  coil 

Where  crested  surges  roar. 

'T  is  for  that  hour,  when,  from  the  wave, 

Near  voices  wildly  cried  ; 
When  thy  stern  hand  no  succor  gave, 

The  cable  at  thy  side. 

Twist  thou  and  twine  !  in  light  and  gloom 

The  spell  is  on  thine  hand  ; 
The  wind  shall  be  thy  changeful  loom, 

Thy  web  the  shifting  sand. 

"PATER   VESTER  PASCIT  ILLA" 

OUR  bark  is  on  the  waters  :  wide  around 
The  wandering  wave  ;  above,  the  lonely  sky. 
Hush  !  a  young  sea-bird   floats,  and   that 

quick  cry 
Shrieks  to  the   levell'd   weapon]s   echoing 

sound, 
Grasps  its  lank  wing,  and  on,  with  reckless 

bound ! 

Yet,  creature  of  the  surf,  a  sheltering  breast 
To-night  shall  haunt  in  vain  thy  far-off  nest, 
A  call  unanswer'd  search  the  rocky  ground. 
Lord  of  leviathan  !  when  Ocean  heard 
Thy  gathering  voice,  and  sought  his  native 

breeze  ; 
When  whales  first  plunged  with  life,  and    J 

the  proud  deep 
Felt   unborn   tempests  heave   in  troubled 

sleep  ; 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER 


Thou  didst  provide,  e'en  for  this  nameless 

bird, 
Home,  and  a  natural  love,  amid  the  surging 

seas. 

THE   SILENT   TOWER   OF 
BOTTREAU 

TINTADGEL  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide, 
The  boy  leans  on  his  vessel  side  ; 
He  hears  that  sound,  and  dreams  of  home 
Soothe  the  wild  orphan  of  the  foam. 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 
Thus  saith  their  pealing  chime  • 
Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

But  why  are  Bottreau's  ech'oes  still  ? 
Her  tower  stands  proudly  on  the  hill ; 
Yet  the  strange  chough   that   home   hath 

found, 
The  lamb  lies  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  ! " 

Should  be  her  answering  chime : 

«  Come  to  thy  God  at  last  I " 

Should  echo  on  the  blast 

The  ship  rode  down  with  courses  free, 
The  daughter  of  a  distant  sea : 
Her  sheet  was  loose,  her  anchor  stor'd, 
The  merry  Bottreau  bells  on  board. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  ! " 

Rung  out  Tintadgel  chime  ; 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 

The  pilot  heard  his  native  bells 

Hang  on  the  breeze  in  fitful  swells  ; 

"  Thank  God,"  with  reverent  brow  he  cried, 

"  We  make  the  shore  with  evening's  tide." 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

It  was  his  marriage  chime  : 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  must  ring  at  last. 

"  Thank  God,  thou  whining  knave,  on  land, 
But  thank,  at  sea,  the  steersman's  hand," 
The  captain's  voice  above  the  gale  : 
u  Thank  the  good  ship  and  ready  sail." 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  ! " 

Sad  grew  the  boding  chime  : 


"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last  I " 
Boom'd  heavy  on  the  blast. 

Uprose  that  sea  !  as  if  it  belli 
The  mighty  Master's  signal-word  : 
What  thrills  the  captain's  whitening  lip  ? 
The  death-groans  of  his  sinking  ship. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  1?> 

Swung  deep  the  funeral  chime  : 

Grace,  mercy,  kindness  past, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last  1 " 

Long  did  the  rescued  pilot  tell  — 
When  gray  hairs  o'er  his  forehead  fell, 
While  those  around  would  heai  and  weep  — 
That  fearful  judgment  of  the  deep. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

He  read  his  native  chime  : 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  rung  out  at  last. 

Still  when  the  storm  of  Bottreau's  waves 
Is  wakening  in  his  weedy  caves, 
Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide. 
Peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide  : 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime  : 

Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 

TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON 

THEY  told  me  in  their  shadowy  phrase, 

Caught  from  a  tale  gone  by, 
That  Arthur,  King  of  Cornish  praise, 

Died  not,  and  would  not  die. 

Dreams  had  they,  that  in  fairy  bowers 
.  Their  living  warrior  lies, 
Or  wears  a  garland  of  the  flowers 
That  grow  in  Paradise. 

I  read  the  rune  with  deeper  ken, 
And  thus  the  myth  I  trace  :  — 

A  bard  should  rise,  mid  future  men, 
The  mightiest  of  his  race. 

He  would  great  Arthur's  deeds  rehearse 

On  gray  Dundagel's  shore  ; 
And  so  the  King  in  laurell'd  verse 

Shall  live,  and  die  no  more  I 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Uptton 

(EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER) 


THE   CARDINAL'S  SOLILOQUY 

FROM    "RICHELIEU;    OR,   THE    CONSPI 
RACY  " 

Rich,  [reading'].    "  In  silence,  and  at  night, 

the  Conscience  feels 
That  life  should  soar  to  nobler  ends  than 

Power." 

So  sayest  thoii,  sage  and  sober  moralist ! 
But  wert  thou  tried  ?     Sublime  Philosophy, 
Thou  art  the  Patriarch's  ladder,  reaching 

heaven, 
And  bright  with  bet&oning  angels  —  but, 

alas! 
We  see  thee,  like  tbe   Patriarch,  but  in 

dreams, 
By  the  first  step,  dull-slumbering  on  the 

earth. 

I  am  not  happy  !  —  with  the  Titan's  lust 
I  woo'd  a  goddess,  and  I  clasp  a  cloud. 
When  I  am  dust,  my  name  shall,  like  a  star, 
Shine  through  wan  space,  a  glory,  and  a 

prophet 
Whereby  pale  seers  shall  from  their  aery 

towers 

Con  all  the  ominous  signs,  benign  or  evil, 
That  make  the  potent  astrologue  of  kings. 
But  shall  the  Future  judge  me  by  the  ends 
That  I  have  wrought,  or  by  the   dubious 

means 
Through  which  the  stream  of  my  renown 

hath  run 

Into  the  many-voiced  uufathorn'd  Time  ? 
Foul  in  its  bed  lie  weeds,  and  heaps  of  slime, 
And  with  its  waves  —  when  sparkling  in 

the  sun, 

Ofttimes  the  secret  rivulets  that  swell 
Its  might  of  waters  — blend  the  hues  of 

blood. 

Yet  are  my  sins  not  those  of  Circumstance, 
That  all-pervading  atmosphere,  wherein 
Our  spirits,  like  the  unsteady  lizard,  take 
The  tints  that  color,  and  the  food  that  nur 
tures  ? 

O  I  ye,  whose  hour-glass  shifts  its  tran 
quil  sands 

In  the  unvex'd  silence  of  a  student's  cell ; 
Te,  whose  untempted  hearts  have  never 

toss'd 


Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  tides  where  life 
Gives  battle  to  the  elements,  —  and  man 
Wrestles  with  man  for  some  slight  plank, 

whose  weight 

Will  bear  but  one,  while  round  the  desper 
ate  wretch 

The  hungry  billows  roar,  and  the  fierce  Fate, 
Like  some  huge  monster,  dim-seen  through 

the  surf, 

Waits  him  who  drops  ;  —  ye  safe  and  for 
mal  men, 
Who  write  the  deeds,  and  with  unfeverish 

hand 
Weigh  in  nice  scales   the  motives  of  the 

Great, 

Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  never  tried  ! 
History  preserves  only  the  fleshless  bones 
Of  what  we  are,  and  by  the  mocking  skull 
The  would-be  wise  pretend  to  guess  the 

features. 

Without  the  roundness  and  the  glow  of  life 
How  hideous  is  the  skeleton  !     Without 
The  colorings  and  humanities  that  clothe 
Our  errors,  the  anatomists  of  schools 
Can  make  our  memory  hideous. 

I  have  wrought 

Great  uses  out  of  evil  tools,  and  they 
In  the  time  to  come  may  bask  beneath  the 

light 

Which  I  have  stolen  from  the  angry  gods, 
And  warn  their  sons  against  the  glorious 

theft, 

Forgetful  of  the  darkness  which  it  broke. 
I  have  shed  blood,  but  I  have  had  no  foes 
Save  those  the  State  had  ;  if  my  wrath  was 

deadly, 

'T  is  that  I  felt  my  country  in  my  veins, 
And  smote  her  sons  as  Brutus  smote  his 

own. 
And  yet  I  am  not  happy  :   blanch'd   and 

sear'd 

Before  my  time  ;  breathing  an  air  of  hate, 
And  seeing  daggers  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
And  wasting  powers  that  shake  the  thrones 

of  earth 

In  contest  with  the  insects  ;  bearding  kings 
And  brav'd  by  lackies  ;  murder  at  my  bed  ; 
And  lone  amidst  the  multitudinous  web, 
With  the  dread  Three,  that  are  the  Fates 

who  hold 


EDWARD,   LORD   LYTTON 


43 


The  woof  and  shears  —  the  Monk,  the  Spy, 

the  Headsman. 
And  this  is  power  ?    Alas  !  I  am  not  happy. 

[Afler  a  pause. 

And  yet  the  Nile  is  fretted  by  the  weeds 
Its  rising  roots  not  up  ;  but  never  yet 
J)id  one  least  barrier  by  a  ripple  vex 
MY  onward  tide,  unswept  in  sport  away. 
Am  I  so  ruthless  then  that  I  do  hate 
Them  who  hate  me  ?     Tush,  tush  1  I  do  not 

hate  ; 
Kay,  I  forgive.     The  Statesman  writes  the 

doom, 

But  the  Priest  sends  the  blessing.     I  for 
give  them, 

But  I  destroy  ;  forgiveness  is  mine  own, 
Destruction  is  the  State's  !    For  private  life, 
Scripture  the  guide  — for  public,  Machiavel. 
Would  fortune  serve  me  if  the  Heaven  were 

wroth  ? 
*  For  chance  makes   half  my  greatness.     I 

was  born 
jneath  the  aspect  of  a  bright-eyed  star, 

my  triumphant  adamant  of  soul 
but  the  fix'd  persuasion  of  success. 
Ah  !  —  here  !  —  that  spasm  !  —  again  !  — 

How  Life  and  Death 
Do  wrestle  for  me  momently  !     And  yet 
The  King  looks  pale.     I  shall  outlive  the 

King! 
And   then,   thou   insolent  Austrian  —  who 

didst  gibe 

At  the  ungainly,  gaunt,  and  daring  lover, 
Sleeking  thy  looks  to  silken  Buckingham, 
Thou  shalt  —  no  matter  !  I  have  outliv'd 

love. 

0  beautiful,  all  golden,  gentle  youth  ! 
Making  thy  palace  in  the  careless  front 
And  hopeful  eye  of  man,  ere  yet  the  soul 
Hath   lost  the  memories  which  (so  Plato 

dream'd) 
Breath'd  glory  from  the  earlier  star  it 

dwelt  in  — 
Oh,  for  one  gale  from  thine  exulting  morn- 

ing» 

Stirring  amidst  the  roses,  where  of  old 
Love  shook  the  dew-drops  from  his  glan 
cing  hair  ! 

Could  I  recall  the  past,  or  had  not  set 
The  prodigal  treasures  of  the  bankrupt  soul 


In  one  slight  bark  upon  the  shoreless  sea  ; 
The  yoked  steer,  after  his  day  of  toil, 
Forgets  the  goad,  and  rests  :  to  me  alike 
Or  day  or  night  —  Ambition  baa  no  rest  I 
Shall  I  resign  ?  who  can  resign  himself  ? 
For  custom  is  ourself  ;  as  drink  and  food 
Become  our  bone  and  tiesh,  the  aliment* 
Nurturing    our    nobler    part,    the    mind, 

thoughts,  dreams, 

Passions,  and  aims,  in  the  revolving  cycle 
Of  the  great  alchemy,  at  length  are  made 
Our  mind  itself  ;  and  yet  the  sweets  of 

leisure, 

An  honor'd  home  far  from  these  base  in 
trigues, 

An  eyrie  on  the  heaven-kiss'd  heights  of 
wisdom.  — 

[Taking  up  the  book. 

Speak  to  me,  moralist  1  —  I '11  heed   thy 
counsel. 


WHEN    STARS   ARE   IN   THE 
QUIET   SKIES 

WHEN  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee  ; 
Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea  ! 
For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  by  night, 

Are  stillest  when  they  shine  ; 
Mine  earthly  love  lies  hush'd  in  light 

Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 

There  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 

Familiar  watch  o'er  men, 
When  coarser  souls  are  wrapp'd  in  sleep  — 

Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then  ! 
There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dreams 

Through  slumber  fairest  glide  ; 
And  in  that  mystic  hour  it  seems 

Thou  shouldst  be  by  my  side. 

My  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 

For  daylight's  common  beam  : 
I  can  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 

My  angel  and  my  dream  ; 
When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee  ; 
Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea  ! 


NOTB.    Another  lyric  by  Lord  Lytton  will  be  found  In  the  BXOOHAPKICAI  Norm. 


44 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


iDilliam  tf&monltftounc  3Hptoim 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE 

COME  hither,  Evan  Cameron  ! 

Come,  stand  beside  my  knee  : 
I  hear  the  river  roaring  down 

Towards  the  wintry  sea. 
There  's  shouting  on  the  mountain-side, 

There  's  war  within  the  blast  j 
Old  faces  look  upon  me, 

Old  forms  go  trooping  past : 
I  hear  the  pibroch  wailing 

Amidst  the  din  of  fight, 
And  my  dim  spirit  wakes  again 

Upon  the  verge  of  night. 

T  was  I  that  led  the  Highland  host 

Through  wild  Lochaber's  snows, 
What  time  the  plaided  clans  came  down 

To  battle  with  Montrose. 
I  've  told  thee  how  the  Southrons  fell 

Beneath  the  broad  claymore, 
And  how  we  smote  the  Campbell  clan 

By  Inverlochy's  shore. 
I  've  told  thee  how  we  swept  Dundee, 

And  tam'd  the  Lindsays'  pride  ; 
But  never  have  I  told  thee  yet 

How  the  great  Marquis  died. 

A  traitor  sold  him  to  his  foes  ; 

O  deed  of  deathless  shame  ! 
I  charge  thee,  boy,  if  e'er  thou  meet 

With  one  of  Assynt's  name  — 
Be  it  upon  the  mountain's  side, 

Or  yet  within  the  glen, 
Stand  he  in  martial  gear  alone, 

Or  back'd  by  armed  men  — 
Face  him,  as  thou  wouldst  face  the  man 

Who  wrong'd  thy  sire's  renown  ; 
Remember  of  what  blood  thou  art, 

And  strike  the  caitiff  down  ! 

They  brought  him  to  the  Watergate, 

Hani  bound  with  hempen  span, 
As  though  they  held  a  lion  there, 

And  not  a  fenceless  man. 
They  set  him  high  upon  a  cart, 

The  hangman  rode  below, 
They  drew  his  hands  behind  his  back 

And  bar'd  his  noble  brow. 
Then,  as  a  hound  is  slipp'd  from  leash, 

They  cheer'd  the  common  throng, 


And  blew  the  note  with  yell  and  shout 
And  bade  him  pass  along. 

It  would  have  made  a  brave  man's  heart 

Grow  sad  and  sick  that  day, 
To  watch  the  keen  malignant  eyes 

Bent  down  on  that  array. 
There  stood  the  Whig  west-country  lords, 

In  balcony  and  bow  ; 
There  sat  their  gaunt  and  wither'd  dames, 

And  their  daughters  all  a-row. 
And  every  open  window 

Was  full  as  full  might  be 
With  black-rob'd  Covenanting  carles, 

That  goodly  sport  to  see  ! 

But  when  he  came,  though  pale  and  wan, 

He  look'd  so  great  and  high, 
So  noble  was  his  manly  front, 

So  calm  his  steadfast  eye, 
The  rabble  rout  forbore  to  shout, 

And  each  man  held  his  breath, 
For  well  they  knew  the  hero's  soul 

Was  face  to  face  with  death. 
And  then  a  mournful  shudder 

Through  all  the  people  crept, 
And  some  that  came  to  scoff  at  him 

Now  turn'd  aside  and  wept. 

But  onwards  —  always  onwards, 

In  silence  and  in  gloom, 
The  dreary  pageant  labor'd, 

Till  it  reach'd  the  house  of  doom. 
Then  first  a  woman's  voice  was  heard 

In  jeer  and  laughter  loud, 
And  an  angry  cry  and  a  hiss  arose 

From  the  heart  of  the  tossing  crowd  °, 
Then  as  the  Graeme  look'd  upwards, 

He  saw  the  ugly  smile 
Of  him  who  sold  his  king  for  gold, 

The  master-fiend  Argyle  ! 

The  Marquis  gaz'd  a  moment, 

And  nothing  did  he  say, 
But  the  cheek  of  Argyle  grew  ghastly  pale 

And  he  turn'd  his  eyes  away. 
The  painted  harlot  by  his  side, 

She  shook  through  every  limb, 
For  a  roar  like  thunder  swept  the  street^ 

And  hands  were  clench'd  at  him  ; 
And  a  Saxon  soldier  cried  aloud, 

"  Back,  coward,  from  thy  place  1 


WILLIAM   EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN 


For  seven  long  years  thou  hast  not  dar'd 
To  look  him  in  the  face." 

Had  I  been  there  with  sword  in  hand, 

And  fifty  Camerons  by, 
That  day  through  high  Dunedin's  streets 

Had  peal'd  the  slogan-cry. 
Not  all  their  troops  of  trampling  horse, 

Nor  might  of  mailed  men, 
Not  all  the  rebels  in  the  south 

Had  borne  us  backwards  then  ! 
Once  more  his  foot  on  Highland  heath 

Had  trod  as  free  as  air, 
Or  I,  and  all  who  bore  my  name, 

Been  laid  around  him  there  ! 

It  might  not  be.     They  placed  him  next 

Within  the  solemn  hall, 
Where   once   the   Scottish    kings    were 
thron'd 

Amidst  their  nobles  all. 
But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet 

On  that  polluted  floor, 
And  perjur'd  traitors  fill'd  the  place 

Where  good  men  sate  before. 
With  savage  glee  came  Warristoun 

To  read  the  murderous  doom  ; 
And  then  uprose  the  great  Moiitrose 

In  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  by  my  faith  as  belted  knight, 

And  by  the  name  I  bear, 
And  by  the  bright  Saint  Andrew's  cress 

That  waves  above  us  there, 
Yea,  by  a  greater,  mightier  oath  — 

And  oh,  that  such  should  be  ! 
By  that  dark  stream  of  royal  blood 

That  lies  'twixt  you  and  me, 
I  have  not  sought  in  battle-field 

A  wreath  of  such  renown, 
Nor  dar'd  I  hope  on  my  dying  day 

To  win  the  martyr's  crown  ! 

u  There  is  a  chamber  far  away 

Where  sleep  the  good  and  brave, 
But  a  better  place   ye  have  uam'd  for 
me 

Than  by  my  father's  grave. 
For  truth  and   right,   'gainst    treason's 
might, 

This  hand  hath  always  striven, 
And  ye  raise  it  up  for  a  witness  still 

In  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Then  nail  my  head  on  yonder  tower, 

Give  every  town  a  limb, 


And  God  who  made  shall  gather  them  : 
I  go  from  you  to  Him  1 " 

The  morning  dawn'd  full  darkly, 

The  rain  came  flashing  down, 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-belt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town  : 
The  thunder  crash'd  across  the  heaven, 

The  fatal  hour  was  conn-  ; 
Yet  aye  broke  in  with  muffled  beat 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 

And  anger  in  the  sky, 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah,  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet ! 

How  dismal  't  is  to  see 
The  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree  ! 
Hark  !  hark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms  — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll  - 
"He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul  ! " 
One  last  long  peal  of  thunder  : 

The  clouds  are  clear'd  away, 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks 
down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 

"  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! " 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room, 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 
And  he  never  walk'd  to  battle 

More  proudly  than  to  die  : 
There  was  colo^  in  his  visage, 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan, 
And  they  marvell'd  as  they  saw  him  pass, 

That  great  and  goodly  man  ! 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turnM  him  to  the  crowd  ; 
But  they  dar'd  not  trust  the  people, 

So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 
But  he  look'd  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether 

The  eye  of  God  shone  through; 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill, 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within  — 

All  else  was  calm  and  stilL 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near, 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee, 
And  veil'd   his   face   for    Christ's  dear 
grace 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree. 
Then  radiant  and  serene  he  rose, 

And  cast  his  cloak  away  : 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him, 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
And  he  clirnb'd  the  lofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll ; 
And  no  man  dar'd  to  look  aloft, 

For  fear  was  on  every  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush  and  than  a  groan  ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky  — 

The  work  of  death  was  done  ! 


MASSACRE    OF   THE    MACPHER- 
SON 

FHAIRSHON  swore  a  feud 

Against  the  clan  M'Tavish  — 
March'd  into  their  land 

To  murder  and  to  rafish  ; 
For  he  did  resolve 

To  extirpate  the  vipers, 
With  four-and-twenty  men, 

And  five-and-thirty  pipers. 

But  when  he  had  gone 

Half-way  down  Strath-Canaan, 
Of  his  fighting  tail 

Just  three  were  remaiuin'. 
They  were  all  he  had 

To  back  him  in  ta  battle  : 
All  the  rest  had  gone 

Off  to  drive  ta  cattle. 

"  Fery  coot ! "  cried  Fhairshon  — 
So  my  clan  disgraced  is  ; 


Lads,  we  '11  need  to  fight 
Pefore  we  touch  ta  peasties. 

Here  's  Mhic-Mac-Metlmsaleh 
Coming  wi'  his  f assals  — 

Gillies  seventy-three, 

And  sixty  Dhuine'wassels  1  " 

"  Coot  tay  to  you,  sir  ! 

Are  you  not  ta  Fhairshon  ? 
Was  you  coming  here 

To  visit  any  person  ? 
You  are  a  plackguard,  sir  ? 

It  is  now  six  hundred 
Coot  long  years,  and  more, 

Since  my  glen  was  plunder'd. n 

"  Fat  is  tat  you  say  ? 

Dar  you  cock  your  peaver  ? 
I  will  teach  you,  sir, 

Fat  is  coot  pehavior  ! 
You  shall  not  exist 

For  another  day  more  ; 
I  will  shot  you,  sir, 

Or  stap  you  with  my  claymore  ! " 

"  I  am  f ery  glad 

To  learn  what  you  mention, 
Since  I  can  prevent 

Any  such  intention." 
So  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave  some  warlike  howls, 
Trew  his  skhian-dhu, 

An'  stuck  it  in  his  powels. 

In  this  fery  way 

Tied  ta  faliant  Fhairshon, 
Who  was  always  thought 

A  superior  person. 
Fhairshon  had  a  son, 

Who  married  Noah's  daughter, 
And  nearly  spoil'd  ta  flood 

By  trinking  up  ta  water  — 

Which  he  would  have  done, 

I  at  least  believe  it, 
Had  ta  mixture  peen 

Only  half  Glenlivet. 
This  is  all  my  tale  : 

Sirs,  I  hope  't  is  new  t'  ye  ! 
Here  's  your  fery  good  healths. 

And  tainn  ta  whusky  tuty  1 


THOMAS   LOVE  PEACOCK 


47 


POETS   OF  QUALITY 


Cf)onm#  fiotoc  peacock 


THE   MEN    OF   GOTHAM 

LMEN  three  !  what  men  be  ye  ? 
Gotham's  three  Wise  Men  we  be. 
tither  in  your  bowl  so  free  ? 
To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 
bowl    goes    trim ;    the    moon    doth 

shine  ; 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  : 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

art  thou,  so  fast  adrift  ? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care, 
[ere  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 
No  :  I  may  not  enter  there. 
~~  jrefore  so  ?  'T  is  Jove's  decree  — 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be  : 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

ir  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 
No  :  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 

it  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl  ? 
Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 

bowl    goes    trim ;     the    moon    doth 

shine  ; 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  : 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 


THE  WAR-SONG   OF   DINAS 
VAWR 

THE  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 
But  the  valley  sheep  are  fatter  ; 
We  therefore  deenrd  it  meeter 
To  carry  off  the  latter. 
We  made  an  expedition  ; 
We  met  an  host  and  quell'd  it ; 
We  forced  a  strong  position 
And  kill'd  the  men  who  held  it. 

On  Dyfed's  richest  valley, 

Where  herds  of  kine  were  browsing, 

We  made  a  mighty  sally, 

To  furnish  our  carousing. 

Fierce  warriors  rush'd  to  meet  us  ; 

We  met  them,  and  o'erthrew  them  : 

They  struggled  hard  to  beat  us, 

But  we  conquer'd  them,  and  slew  them. 


As  we  drove  our  prize  at  leisure, 
The  king  march'd  forth  to  catch  us  j 
His  rage  surpass'd  all  measure, 
But  his  people  could  not  match  us. 
He  fled  to  his  hall-pillars  ; 
And,  ere  our  force  we  led  off, 
Some  sack'd  his  house  and  cellars, 
While  others  cut  his  head  off. 

We  there,  in  strife  bewildering, 
Spilt  blood  enough  to  swim  in  : 
We  orphan'd  many  children 
And  widow'd  many  women. 
The  eagles  and  the  ravens 
We  glutted  with  our  foemen  : 
The  heroes  and  the  cravens, 
The  spearmen  and  the  bowmen. 

We  brought  away  from  battle, 

And  much  their  land  bemoan'd  them, 

Two  thousand  head  of  cattle 

And  the  head  of  him  who  own'd  them  : 

Ednyfed,  King  of  Dyfed, 

His  head  was  borne  before  us  ; 

His  wine  and  beasts  supplied  our  feasts, 

And  his  overthrow,  our  chorus. 

MARGARET   LOVE   PEACOCK 

THREE   YEARS   OLD 

LONG  night  succeeds  thy  little  day  : 
O,  blighted  blossom  !  can  it  be 

That  this  gray  stone  and  grassy  clay 
Have  clos'd  our  anxious  care  of  thee  ? 

The  half-form'd  speech  of  artless  thought, 
That  spoke  a  mind  beyond  thy  years, 

The  song,  the  dance  by  Nature  taught, 
The  sunny  smiles,  the  transient  tears, 

The  symmetry  of  face  and  form, 
The  eye  with  light  and  life  replete, 

The  little  heart  so  fondly  warm, 
The  voice  so  musically  sweet,  — 

These,  lost  to  hope,  in  memory  yet 

Around  the  hearts  that  lov'd  thee  cling, 

Shadowing  with  long  and  vain  regret 
The  too  fair  promise  of  thy  Spring. 


POETS   OF   QUALITY 


HDintljrop 


THE  VICAR 

SOME  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 

Had  turn'd  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket 
Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 

And  guided  to  the  parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path 

Through  clean-clipp'd  rows  of  box  and 

myrtle  ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected, 
Wagg'd  all  their  tails,  and  seem'd  to  say, 

"  Our  master  knows   you  ;  you  're    ex 
pected." 

Up  rose  the  reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  doctor's  "  winsome  marrow  ; " 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasp'd  his  ponderous  Bar 
row. 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reach'd  his  journey's  end, 

And  warm'd  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gain'd  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge  ; 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  vicarage,  nor  the  vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses  ; 
It  slipp'd  from  politics  to  puns  ; 

It  pass'd  from  Mahomet  to  Moses  ; 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 
Of  loud  dissent  the  mortal  terror  ; 


And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 
He  'stablish'd  truth  or  startled  error, 

The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep, 
The  Deist  sigh'd  with  saving  sorrow. 

And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep 

And  dream'd  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  show'd 

That  earth  is  foul,  that  heaven  is  gracious. 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius  ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspir'd 

The   hand   and  head  that    penn'd   and 

plann'd  them, 
For  all  who  understood  admir'd, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses, 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses  ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost ; 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban  ; 
And  trifles  to  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking  ; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking  ; 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning. 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improv'd  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  lov'd  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnish'd  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage, 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarr'd  the  shutter 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smil'd 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Csesar  or  of  Venus  ; 
From  him  I  learn'd  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qu(e  genus. 
I  used  to  singe  his  powder'd  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in, 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 


PRAED  —  LANGHORNE 


49 


Alack,  the  change  !     In  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climb'd,  the  beds  I  rifled. 
The  church  is  larger  than  before, 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry  : 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  for  the  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  vicar's  seat :  you  '11  hear 
The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
rhose   hand    is    white,    whose   voice    is 

clear, 

Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 
rhere    is    the    old    man    laid  ?       Look 

down, 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you  : 
^Hicjacet  Gulielmm  Brown, 
Vir  nulld  non  donandus  lauro." 

THE  NEWLY-WEDDED 

Now  the  rite  is  duly  done, 
Now  the  word  is  spoken, 


And  the  spell  has  made  us  one 
Which  may  ne'er  be  broken  ; 

Rest  we,  dearest,  in  our  home, 
Roam  we  o'er  the  heather  : 

We  shall  rest,  and  we  shall  roam, 
Sliall  we  not  ?  together. 

From  this  hour  the  summer  rose 

Sweeter  breathes  to  charm  us  ; 
From  this  hour  the  winter  snows 

Lighter  fall  to  harm  us  : 
Fair  or  foul  —  on  land  or  sea  — 

Come  the  wind  or  weather, 
Best  and  worst,  whate'er  they  be, 

We  shall  share  together. 

Death,  who  friend  from  friend  can  part, 

Brother  rend  from  brother, 
Shall  but  link  us,  heart  and  heart, 

Closer  to  each  other  : 
We  will  call  his  anger  play, 

Deem  his  dart  a  feather, 
When  we  meet  him  on  our  way 

Hand  in  hand  together. 


THEOCRITUS 

'HEOCRITUS  !  Theocritus  !  ah,  thou  hadst 

pleasant  dreams 
)f  the   crystal   spring   Burinna,  and   the 

Haleus'  murmuring  streams  ; 
Physcus,  and  Neaethus,  and  fair  Are- 

thusa's  fount, 
Lacinion's  beetling  crag,  and  Latymnus' 

woody  mount ; 
)f  the  fretted  rocks  and  antres  hoar  that 

overhang  the  sea, 
id  the  sapphire  sky  and  thymy  plains  of 

thy  own  sweet  Sicily  ; 
of  the  nymphs  of  Sicily,  that  dwelt  in 

oak  and  pine  — 
jocritus !    Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 
dreams  were  thine  ! 

of  the  merry  rustics  who  tend  the  goats 

and  sheep, 
ind  the  maids  who  trip  to  milk  the  cows 

at  morning's  dewy  peep, 
>f    Clearista  with  her  locks  of  brightest 

sunny  hair, 


Xangfjornc 


And  the  saucy  girl  Kunica,  and  sweet  Chloe 
kind  and  fair  ; 

And  of  those  highly  favor'd  ones,  Endymion 
and  Adonis, 

Loved  by  Selena  the  divine,  and  the  beau 
teous  Dionis  ; 

Of  the  silky-hair'd  caprella,  and  the  gentle 
lowing  kine  — 

Theocritus  !  Theocritus !  what  pleasant 
dreams  were  thine  ! 

Of  the  spring  time,  and  the  summer,  and 
the  zephyr's  balmy  breeze  ; 

Of  the  dainty  flowers,  and  waving  elms, 
and  the  yellow  humming  bees  ; 

Of  the  rustling  poplar  and  the  oak,  the  tam 
arisk  and  the  beech, 

The  dog-rose  and  anemone,  —  thou  hadst 
a  dream  of  each  ! 

Of  the  galingale  and  hyacinth,  and  the  lily  s 
snowy  hue, 

The  couch-grass,  and  green  maiden-hair, 
and  celandine  pale  blue, 

The  gold-bedropt  cassidony,  the  fern,  and 
sweet  woodbine  — 


5° 


THE  ROISTERERS 


Theocritus  !     Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 
dreams  were  thine  ! 

Of  the  merry  harvest-home,  all  beneath  the 

good  green  tree, 
The  poppies  and    the  spikes  of   corn,  the 

shouting  and  the  glee 
Of  the  lads  so  blithe  and  healthy,  and  the 

girls  so  gay  and  neat, 
And  the  dance  they  lead  around  the  tree 

with  ever  twinkling  feet  ; 
And  the  bushy  piles  of  lentisk  to  rest  the 

aching  brow, 
And  reach  and  pluck  the  damson  down  from 

the  overladen  bough, 
And  munch  the  roasted  bean  at  ease,  and 

quaff  the  Ptelean  wine  — 
Theocritus  !     Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 

dreams  were  thine  ! 

And  higher  dreams  were  thine  to  dream  — 

of  Heracles  the  brave, 
And  Polydeukes  good  at  need,  and  Castor 

strong  to  save  ; 
Of  Dionysius  and  the  woe  he  wrought  the 

Theban  king ; 


And  of  Zeus  the  mighty  centre  of  Olympus* 

glittering  ring  ; 
Of  Tiresias,  the  blind  old  man,  the  fam'd 

Aonian  seer  ; 
Of   Hecate,  and  Cthonian    Dis,  whom  all 

mankind  revere  ; 
And  of  Daphnis  lying  down  to  die  beneath 

the  leafy  vine  — 
Theocritus !     Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 

dreams  were  thine  ! 

But  mostly  sweet  and  soft  thy  dreams  — 

of  Cypris'  loving  kiss, 
Of  the  dark-haired  maids  of  Corinth,  and 

the  feasts  of  Sybaris  ; 
Of  alabaster  vases  of  Assyrian  perfume, 
Of  ebony,  and  gold,  and  pomp,  and  softly- 

curtain'd  room  ; 
Of  Faunus  piping  in  the  woods  to  the  Sa 
tyrs'  noisy  rout, 
And  the  saucy  Panisks  mocking  him  with 

many  a  jeer  and  flout  ; 
And    of    the    tender-footed    Hours,    and 

Pieria's  tuneful  Nine  — 
Theocritus  !    Theocritus !    what    pleasant 

dreams  were  thine  ! 


THE   ROISTERERS 


fticljarfc 


25arljam 


("THOMAS  INGOLDSBY") 


THE  JACKDAW   OF   RHEIMS 

THE  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair  ! 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there  ; 

Many  a  monk,  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight,  and  many  a  squire, 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree,  — 
In  sooth,  a  goodly  company  ; 
And  they   serv'd  the   Lord    Primate    on 
bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween, 

Was  a  prouder  seen, 

Read  of  in  books,  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Than  the   Cardinal   Lord  Archbishop    of 
Rheims  ! 

In  and  out 

Through  the  motley  rout, 
That  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about ; 


Here  and  there 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fair, 

Over  comfits  and  cates, 

And  dishes  and  plates, 
Cowl  and  cope,  and  rochet  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosier  !  he  hopp'd  upon  all ! 

With  a  saucy  air, 

He  perch'd  on  the  chair 
Where,  in  state,  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  sat, 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red  hat  ; 

And  he  peer'd  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  Grace, 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  he  would  say, 
"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to 
day  !  " 

And  the  priests,  with  awe, 

As  such  freaks  they  saw, 
Said,  "  The  Devil  must  be   in  that  little 
Jackdaw!" 


RICHARD   HARRIS   BARHAM 


The  feast  was  over,  the  board  was  clear'd, 
The  ilawns  and  the  custards  had  all  disap- 

pear'd, 
And  six  little   Singing-boys, — dear  little 

souls  ! 

In  nice  clean  faces,  and  nice  white  stoles, 
Came  in  order  due, 
Two  by  two, 

Marching  that  grand  refectory  through. 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer, 
Einbuss'd  and  fill'd.  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that   Hows   between   Rheims   and 

Namur, 

Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to  catch 
In  a  tine  golden  hand-basin  made  to  match. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown, 
Carried     lavender-water    and    eau-de-Co 
logne  ; 

And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap, 
Worthy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope. 
One  little  boy  more 
A  napkin  bore, 
Of    the    best   white   diaper,  fringed   with 

pink, 

And  a  Cardinal's  hat  mark'd  in  "  permanent 
ink." 

The  great  Lord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dress'd  all  in  white : 
From  his  finger  he  draws 
His  costly  turquoise  ; 

And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jack 
daws, 

Deposits  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  his  plate, 
While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Eminence 

wait ; 
Till,  when  nobody 's  dreaming  of  any  such 

thing, 
That  little  Jackdaw  hops  off  with  the  ring  ! 

There  's  a  cry  and  a  shout, 
And  a  deuce  of  a  rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they  're 

about, 
But  the  monks  have  their  pockets  all  turn'd 

inside  out  ; 

The  friars  are  kneeling, 
And  hunting,  and  feeling 
carpet,  the  floor,  and  tt*5  walls,  and  the 

ceiling. 

The  Cardinal  drew 
Off  each  plum-color'd  shoe, 
Lnd  left  his  red  stockings  expos'd  to  the 
view: 


He  peeps,  and  he  feels 
In  tlie  toes  and  the  heels  ; 
They  turn  up  the  dishes,  —  they  turn  up 

the  plates,  — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the 

pates, 

—  They  turn  up  the  rugs, 
They  examine  the  mu^s  : 
But  no  !  —  no  such  thing  ; 
They  can't  find  THK  RING  ! 
And  the  Abbot  declar'd  that,  "  when   no- 

body  twigg'd  it, 

Some  rascal  or  other  had  popp'd  in  and 
prigg'd  it  1 " 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 
He  call'd  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his 

book  : 

In  holy  anger,  and  pious  grief, 
He  solemnly  curs'd  that  rascally  thief  ! 
He  curs'd  him  at  board,  he  curs'd  him 

in  bed, 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of 

his  head  ! 
He  curs'd  him  in   sleeping,  that  every 

night 
He  should  dream  of  the  devil,  and  wake 

in  a  fright  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  eating,  he  curs'd  him 

in  drinking, 
He  curs'd  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing, 

in  winking  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in 

iy»ng ; 

He  curs'd  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in 

flying  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  living,  he  curs'd  him 

in  dying  ! 

Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse  ! 
But  what  gave  rise 
To  no  little  surprise, 
Nobody  seeni'd  one  penny  the  worse  I 

The  day  was  gone, 
The  night  came  on, 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  search'd  tfll 

dawn  ; 

When  the  sacristan  saw, 
On  crumpled  claw, 
Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame   Jack- 

daw. 

No  longer  gay, 
As  on  yesterday; 

His  feathers  all  seem'd  to  be  turn'd  the 
wrong  way; 


THE   ROISTERERS 


His    pinions    droopM  —  he    could    hardly 

stand, 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your 

hand  ; 

His  eye  so  dim, 
So  wasted  each  limb, 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried, 

"  THAT  's  HIM  ! 

That 's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scanda 
lous  thing  ! 
That 's  the  thief  that   has   got  my   Lord 

Cardinal's  Ring  !  " 
The  poor  little  Jackdaw, 
When  the  monks  he  saw, 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw  ; 
And  turu'd  his  bald  head,  as  much  as  to 

say, 

"  Pray,  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way  !  " 
Slower  and  slower 
He  limp'd  on  before, 

Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry- 
door, 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw, 
Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw, 
Was  the  RING,  in  the  nest  of  that  little 
Jackdaw. 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  calPd  for  his 

book, 

And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took  ; 
The  mute  expression 
Serv'd  in  lieu  of  confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full   resti 
tution, 
The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution  ! 

—  When  those  words  were  heard, 
That  poor  little  bird 
Was  so  changed  in  a  moment,  't  was  really 

absurd. 

He  grew  sleek  and  fat ; 
In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a 

mat. 

His  tail  waggled  more 
Even  than  before  ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagg'd  with  an  impudent 

air, 
No  longer  he  perch'd   on  the  Cardinal's 

chair. 

He  hopp'd  now  about 
With  a  gait  devout ; 
At  matins,  at  vespers,  he  never  was  out ; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 
He  always  seem'd  telling  the  Confessor's 
beads. 


If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore, 

Or  slumber'd  in  pray'r-time  and  happen'd 

to  snore, 

That  good  Jackdaw 

Would  give  a  great  "  Caw  !  " 

As  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  do  so  any  more  !  " 

While  many  remark'd,  as  his  manners  they 

saw, 
That  they  "  never  had  known  such  a  pious 

Jackdaw  ! " 
He  long  liv'd  the  pride 
Of  that  country  side, 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died  ; 
When,  as  words  were  too  faint 
His  merits  to  paint, 
The  Conclave  determin'd  to  make  him  a 

Saint ; 
And  on  newly-made  Saints  and  Popes,  as 

you  know, 
It's  the  custom,  at  Rome,  new  names  to 

bestow, 

So  they  canoniz'd  him  by  the  name  of  Jen? 
Crow! 


MR.     BARNEY     MAGUIRE'S     AC 
COUNT   OF    THE    CORONATION 

OCH  !  the  Coronation  !  what  celebration 

For  emulation  can  with  it  compare  ? 
When  to  Westminster  the  Royal  Spinster, 
And  the  Duke  of  Leiuster,  all  in  order 

did  repair  ! 
'Twas  there  you'd  see  the  New  Polishe- 

men 

Make  a  scrimmage  at  half  after  four, 
And  the  Lords  and  Ladies,  and  the  Miss 

O'Gradys, 

All   standing  round   before   the  Abbey 
door. 

Their  pillows  scorning,  that  self-same  morn 
ing 

Themselves  adorning,  all  by  the  caudle- 
light, 
With  roses  and  lilies,  and  daffy-down-dil- 

lies 
And  gould  and  jewels,  and  rich  di'monds 

bright. 

And  then  approaches  five  hundred  coaches, 
With  Gineral   Dullbeak.  —  Och  !  'twas 

mighty  fine 

To  see  how  asy  bould  Corporal  Casey, 
With  his  sword  drawn,  prancing  made 
them  kape  the  line. 


RICHARD    HARRIS    BARHAM 


53 


Then  the  Guns'  alarums,  and  the  King  of 

Arums, 

All  in  his  Garters  and  his  Clarence  shoes, 
Opening  the  massy  doors  to  the  bould  Am- 

bassydors, 

The  Prince  of  Potboys,  and  great  hay- 
then  Jews  : 

'T  would  have  made  you  crazy  to  see  Ester- 
hazy 
All  jooPs  from  his  jasey  to  his  di'mond 

boots, 
With  Alderman  Harmer,  and  that  swate 

charmer 
The  famale  heiress,  Miss  Anja-ly  Coutts. 

And  Wellington,  walking  with  his  swoord 

drawn,  talking 
To  Hill  and  Hardinge,  haroes  of  great 

fame  : 

And  Sir  De  Lacy,  and  the  Duke  Dalmasey 
(They  call'd  him  Sowlt  afore  he  changed 

his  name), 
Themselves    presading   Lord    Melbourne, 

lading 

The  Queen,  the  darling,  to  her  royal  chair, 
And  that  fine  ould  fellow,  the  Duke  of  Pell- 

Mello, 
The  Queen  of  Portingal's  Chargy-de-fair. 

Then   the   noble    Prussians,   likewise    the 

Russians, 
In  fine  laced  jackets  with  their  goulden 

cuffs, 

And  the  Bavarians,  and  the  proud  Hunga 
rians, 
And   Everythingarians  all   in   furs  and 

muffs. 
Then  Misther  Spaker,  with  Misther  Pays 

the  Quaker, 

All  in  the  gallery  you  might  persave  ; 
But  Lord  Brougham  was  missing,  and  gone 

a-fishing, 

Ounly  crass  Lord  Essex  would  not  give 
him  lave. 

There  was  Baron  Alten  himself  exalting, 
And  Prinee  Von   Schwartzenburg,   and 

many  more  ; 
Och  !  I  'd  be  bother'd  and  entirely  smoth- 

er'd 

To  tell  the  half  of  'em  was  to  the  fore  ; 
With  the  swate  Peeresses,  in  their  crowns 

and  dresses, 

And  Aklermanesses,  and  the  Boord  of 
Works; 


But  Mehemet  Ali  said,  quite  giutaly 
"  I  'd  be  proud  to  see  the  likes  amr 
Turks  ! " 


likes  among  the 


Then  the  Queen,  Heaven  bless  her  t  och  I 

they  did  dress  her 
In  her  purple  garaments  and  her  goulden 

Crown  ; 
Like  Venus,  or  Hebe,  or  the   Queen  of 

Sheby, 
With  eight  young  ladies  houlding  op  her 

gown. 

Sure  't  was  grand  to  see  her,  also  for  to  he-ar 
The  big  drums  bating,  and  the  trumpets 

blow, 
And  Sir  George  Smart !  Oh  !  he  play'd  a 

Consarto, 

With  his  four  and  twenty  fiddlers  all  on 
a  row. 

Then  the  Lord  Archbishop  held  a  goulden 

dish  up, 
For  to  resave   her  bounty    and    great 

wealth, 
Saying,  "  Plase   your  glory,  great  Queen 

Vic-tory, 
Ye  '11  give  the  Clargy  lave  to  drink  your 

health  !  " 
Then  his    Riverence,  retrating,  discoors'd 

the  mating  : 
"  Boys  I     Here 's  your  Queen  !  deny  it  if 

you  can  ; 
And  if  any  bould  traitor,  or  infarior  cray- 

thur 
Sneezes  at  that,  I  'd  like  to  see  the  man  ! " 

Then  the  Nobles  kneeling  to  the  Pow'rt 

appealing, 
"  Heaven  send  your  Majesty  a  glorious 

reign  ! " 
And  Sir  Claudius  Hunter  he  did  confront 

her, 
All    in    his   scarlet    gown  and   goulden 

chain. 
The  great  Lord  May'r,  too,  sat  in  his  chair 

too, 

But  mighty  sarious,  looking  fit  to  cry, 
For  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  all  in  his  hurry, 
Throwing  the   thirteens,  hit  him  in  his 
eye. 

Then  there  was  preaching,  and  good  store 

of  speeching, 

With  Dukes  and  Marquises  on  bended 
knee; 


THE   ROISTERERS 


And  they  did  splash  her  with  real  Macas- 

shur, 
And  the  Queen  said, "  Ah  !  then  thank  ye 

all  for  me  !  " 
Then  the  trumpets  braying,  and  the  organ 

playing, 

And  the  sweet  trombones,  with  their  sil 
ver  tones  ; 
But     Lord     Rolle    was    rolling  ;  —  't  was 

mighty  consoling 

To  think  his  Lordship  did  not  break  his 
bones  ! 

Then  the  crames  and  custard,  and  the  beef 

and  mustard, 
All  on  the  tombstones  like  a  poultherer's 

shop  ; 
With  lobsters   and  white-bait,  and   other 

swate-meats, 
And  wine  and  nagus,  and  Imparial  Pop  ! 


There  was   cakes   and   apples   in   all    the 

Chapels, 
With   fine    polonies,   and    rich    mellow 

pears,  — 
Och  !  the  Count  Von  Strogonoff,  sure   he 

got  prog  enough, 
The  sly  ould  Divil,  undernathe  the  stairs. 

Then  the  cannons  thunder'd,  and  the  people 

wonder 'd, 
Crying,  "God  save  Victoria,  our  Royal 

"   Queen!"  — 

Och !   if  myself  should  live  to  be  a  hun 
dred, 
Sure  it 's  the  proudest  day  that  I  '11  have 

seen  !  — 
And  now,  I  've  ended,  what  I  pretended, 

This  narration  splendid  in  swate  poe-thry, 
Ye  dear  bewitcher,  just  hand  the  pitcher, 
Faith,  it 's  myself  that 's  getting  dhry. 


THE  IRISHMAN  AND  THE  LADY 

THERE  was  a  lady  liv'd  at  Leith, 

A  lady  very  stylish,  man  ; 
And  yet*  in  spite  of  all  her  teeth, 
She  fell  in  love  with  an  Irishman  — 
A  nasty,  ugly  Irishman, 
A  wild,  tremendous  Irishman, 
A   tearing,  swearing,  thumping,  bumping, 
ranting,  roaring  Irishman. 

His  face  was  no  ways  beautiful, 

For  with  small-pox  't  was  scarr'd  across; 
And  the  shoulders  of  the  ugly  dog 
Were  almost  double  a  yard  across. 
Oh,  the  lump  of  an  Irishman, 
The  whiskey-devouring  Irishman, 
The   great   he-rogue   with    his   wonderful 
brogue  —  the  fighting,  rioting  Irish 
man. 

One  of  his  eyes  was  bottle-green, 

And  the  other  eye  was  out,  my  dear  ; 
And  the  calves  of  his  wicked-looking  legs 
Were  more  than  two  feet  about,  my  dear. 
Oh,  the  great  big  Irishman, 
The  rattling,  battling  Irishman  — 
The  stamping,  ramping,  swaggering,  stag 
gering,  leathering  swash  of  an  Irish 
man. 


He  took  so  much  of  Lundy-foot 

That  he  used  to  snort  and  snuffle  —  O  I 
And  in  shape  and  size  the  fellow's  neck 
Was  as  bad  as  the  neck  of  a  buffalo. 
Oh,  the  horrible  Irishman, 
The  thundering,blundering  Irishman — 
The    slashing,  dashing,  smashing,  lashing, 
thrashing,  hashing  Irishman. 

His  name  was  a  terrible  name,  indeed, 

Being  Timothy  Thady  Mulligan  ; 
And  whenever  he  emptied  his  tumbler  of 

punch 
He'd    not    rest    till    he    fill'd    it    full 

again. 

The  boozing,  bruising  Irishman, 
The  'toxicated  Irishman  — 
The    whiskey,    frisky,    rummy,     gummy, 
brandy,  no  dandy  Irishman. 

This  was  the  lad  the  lady  lov'd, 
Like  all  the  girls  of  quality  ; 
And  he  broke  the  skulls  of   the  men  of 

Leith, 

Just  by  the  way  of  jollity. 
Oh,  the  leathering  Irishman, 
The  barbarous,  savage  Irishman  — 
The  hearts  of  the  maids,  and  the  gentle 
men's  heads,  were  bother'd  I  'm  sure 
by  this  Irishman. 


MAGINN  —  MAHONY 


55 


THE  SOLDIER-BOY 

I  GIVE  my  soldier-boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashion'd  well  ; 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  sway'd, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not  ;  but  I  hope  to  know 

That  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade, 
To  guard  no  feeling  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear,  the  lucid  flood 
In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done 

As  calm,  as  clear,  as  cool  of  mood, 
Be  thou  whene'er  it  sees  the  sun. 


For  country's  claim,  at  honor's  call, 
For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 

At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 
I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  which  mark'd  its  peerless  edge, 

The  hand  that  weigh'd  its  balanced 

poise. 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone   with    all  their  flame  and 

noise  — 
And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains  ; 

So,  when  in  dust  I  Tow  am  laid, 
Remember  by  these  heart-felt  strains, 

I  gave  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 


jprancig 

("FATHER  PROUT") 


THE   SHANDON   BELLS 

Sabbata  pango  ; 
Fvnera  plango  ; 
Solemnia  clango. 

INSCRIPTION  ON   AN  OLD 

WITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee, 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  Ve  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  — 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine  ; 
For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 


The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  Ve  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame  ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly  : 
Oh  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There 's  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  oh ! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them  ; 
But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me  : 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


WALKER  —  COLERIDGE 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


n&flltom 

DEATH'S  ALCHEMY 

THEY  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  on  thy  bier, 
More    lovely  than  in  life  ;  that  when  the 

thrall 
Of  earth  was  loos'd,  it  seem'd  as  though  a 

pall 

Of  years  were  lifted,  and  thou  didst  appear 
Such  as  of   old  amidst  thy  home's   calm 

sphere 
Thou  sat'st,  a  kindly  Presence  felt  by  all 


W&lket 


TO   THE  NAUTILUS 

WHERE  Ausonian  summers  glowing 
Warm  the  deep  to  life  and  joyance, 
And  gentle  zephyrs,  nimbly  blowing, 
Wanton  with  the  waves  that  flowing 
By  many  a  land  of  ancient  glory, 
And  many  an  isle  renown'd  in  story, 
Leap  along  with  gladsome  buoyance, 

There,  Marinere, 

Dost  thou  appear 
In  faery  pinnace  gaily  flashing, 
Through   the   white    foam   proudly   dash 
ing* 

The  joyous  playmate  of  the  buxom  breeze, 
The  fearless  fondling  of  the  mighty  seas. 

Thou  the  light  sail  boldly  spreadest, 
O'er  the  furrow'd  waters  gliding, 
Thou  nor  wreck  nor  foeman  dreadest, 
Thou  nor  helm  nor  compass  needest, 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee, 
While  the  bounding  surges  love  thee  : 
In  their  deepening  bosoms  hiding 

Thou  canst  not  fear, 

Small  Marinere, 

For  though  the  tides  with  restless  motion' 
Bear  thee  to  the  desert  ocean, 
Far  as  the  ocean  stretches  to  the  sky, 
'T  is  all  thine  own,  't  is  all  thy  empery. 


In 


joy  or   grief,  from  morn   to  evening- 

fall, 

The  peaceful  Genius  of  that  mansion  dear. 
Was  it  the  craft  of  all-persuading  Love 
That  wrought  this  marvel  ?  or  is  Death  in- 


A  mighty  master,  gifted  from  above 
With  alchemy  benign,  to  wounded  hearts 
Minist'ring  thus,  by  quaint  and  subtle  arts, 
Strange    comfort,  whereon    after-thought 
may  feed  ? 


Lame  is  art,  and  her  endeavor 
Follows  nature's  course  but  slowly, 
Guessing,  toiling,  seeking  ever, 
Still  improving,  perfect  never  ; 
Little  Nautilus,  thou  showest 
Deeper  wisdom  than  thou  knowest, 
Lore,  which  man  should  study  lowly  : 

Bold  faith  and  cheer, 

Small  Marinere, 

Are  thine  within  thy  pearly  dwelling  : 
Thine,  a  law  of  life  compelling, 
Obedience,  perfect,  simple,  glad  and  free, 
To  the  great  will  that  animates  the  sea. 

THE   BIRTH    OF    SPEECH 

WHAT;  was't  awaken'd  first   the   untried 

ear 

Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  human  kind  ? 
Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind, 
Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere  ? 
The  four  mellifluous  streams  which  flow'd  so 

near, 

Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combin'd  ? 
The  note  of  bird  unnam'd  ?  The  startled 

hind 

Bursting  the  brake  —  in  wonder,  not  in  fear, 
Of  her  new  lord  ?     Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  pressure  of  immaculate  feet  ? 


HARTLEY   COLERIDGE 


57 


Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around, 
Making'  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet, 
Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound  ? 


WHITHER? 

WHITHER  is  gone  the  wisdom  and  the  power 
That  ancient  sages  scatter'd  with  the  notes 
Of  thought-suggesting  lyres  ?  The  music 

floats 

In  the  void  air  ;  e'en  at  this  breathing  hour, 
In  every  cell  and  every  blooming  bower 
The  sweetness  of  old  lays  is  hovering  still : 
But  the  strong  soul,  the  self-constraining 

will, 
The  rugged  root  that   bare   the  winsome 

Sower 
Is  weak  and  wither'd.      Were  we  like  the 

Fays 

That  sweetly  nestle  in  the  foxglove  bells, 
Or  lurk  and  murmur  in  the  rose-lipp'd  shells 
Which  Neptune  to  the  earth  for  quit-rent 

pays, 

Then  might  our  pretty  modern  Philomels 
Sustain  our  spirits  with  their  roundelays. 


TO    SHAKESPEARE 

THE  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathom'd  centre.     Like  that  Ark 
Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high, 
O'er  the  drown'd  hills,  the  human  family, 
And  stock  reserv'd  of  every  living  kind, 
So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind, 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 
That  make  all  worlds.      Great  Poet,  't  was 

thy  art 

To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 
Whate'er  love,  hate,  ambition,  destiny, 
Or  the  firm,  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart, 
Can  make  of  Man.     let  thou  wert  still  the 

same, 
Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 


IDEALITY 

THE  vale  of  Tempe  had  in  vain  been  fair, 
Green  Ida  never  deem'd  the  nurse  of  Jove  ; 
Each  fabled  stream,  beneath  its  covert 

grove, 
Had  idly  murmur'd  to  the  idle  air  ; 


The  shaggy  wolf  had  kept  his  horrid  lair 
In    Delphi's    cell,    and    old    Trophonitts* 

cave, 

And  the  wild  wailing  of  the  Ionian  wave 
Had  never  blended  with    the  sweet  de 
spair 
Of  Sappho's  death-song  :  if  the  tight  in- 

spir'd 

Saw  only  what  the  visual  organs  show, 
If  heaven-born  phantasy  no  more  requir'd 
Thau  what  within  the  sphere  of  sense  may 

grow. 

The  beauty  to  perceive  of  earthly  things, 
The  mounting  soul  must  heavenward  prune 
her  wings. 


SONG 

SHE  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smil'd  on  me  ; 
Oh!  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 
To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
The  love-light  in  her  eye  : 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 

Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


PRAYER 

BE  not  afraid  to  pray  —  to  pray  is  right 
Pray,  if  thou  canst,  with  hope;   but  ever 

pray, 
Though  hope  be  weak,  or  sick  with  long 

delay  ; 

Pray  in  the  darkness,  if  there  be  no  light. 
Far  is  the  time,  remote  from  human  sight, 
When  war  and  discord  on  the  earth  shall 

cease  ; 

Yet  every  prayer  for  universal  peace 
Avails  the  blessed  time  to  expedite. 
Whate'er  is  good   to   wish,   ask   that   of 

Heaven, 
Though  it  be  what  thou  canst  not  hope  to 

see  : 

Pray  to  be  perfect,  though  material  leaven 
ForbicFthe  spirit  so  on  earth  to  be; 
But  if  for  any  wish  thou  darest  not  pray, 
Then  pray  to  God  to  cast  that  wish  awmj. 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


"MULTUM    DILEXIT" 

SHE  sat  and  wept  beside  His  feet;  the  weight 
Of  siuoppress'd  her  heart;  for  all  the  blame, 
And  the  poor  malice  of  the  worldly  shame, 
To  her  was  past,  extinct,  and  out  of  date  : 
Only  the  sin  remain 'd,  —  the  leprous  state ; 
She  would  be  melted  by  the  heat  of  love, 
By  fires  far  fiercer  than  are  blown  to  prove 
And  purge  the  silver  ore  adulterate. 


She  sat  and  wept,  and  with  her  untress'd 

hair 
Still  wip'd  the  feet  she  was  so  bless'd  to 

touch  ; 

And  He  wip'd  off  the  soiling  of  despair 
From  her  sweet  soul,  because  she  lov'd  so 

much. 

I  am  a  sinner,  full  of  doubts  and  fears  : 
Make  me   a  humble   thing  of    love    and 

tears. 


Stnna 


TAKE   ME,   MOTHER   EARTH 

TAKE  me,  Mother  Earth,  to  thy  cold  breast, 
And  fold  me  there  in  everlasting  rest  ! 

The  long  day  is  o'er, 

I  'm  weary,  I  would  sleep  ; 

But  deep,  deep, 

Never  to  waken  more. 

I  have  had  joy  and  sorrow,  I  have  prov'd 
What  life  could  give,  have  lov'd,  and  been 
belov'd  ; 


THY  JOY  IN  SORROW 

GIVE  me  thy  joy  in  sorrow,  gracious  Lord, 
And  sorrow's  self  shall  like  to  joy  appear  ! 
Although  the  world  should  waver  in  its 

sphere 

I  tremble  not  if  Thou  thy  peace  afford  ; 
But,  Thou  withdrawn,  I  am  but  as  a  chord 
That  vibrates  to  the  pulse  of  hope  and  fear  : 
Nor  rest  I  more  than  harps  which  to  the 


air 


THE   SIGN   OF  THE   CROSS 

WHENE'ER    across    this    sinful    flesh    of 

mine 
I  draw  the  Holy  Sign, 


I  am  sick,  and  heart-sore, 
And  weary;  let  me  sleep  ; 
But  deep,  deep, 
Never  to  waken  more. 

To   thy  dark   chamber,   Mother   Earth,  I 

come, 
Prepare  thy  dreamless  bed  in  my  last  home; 

Shut  down  the  marble  door, 

And  leave  me  !     Let  me  sleep  ; 

But  deep,  deep, 

Never  to  waken  more  ! 


Must  answer  when  we  place  their  tuneful 
board 

Against  the  blast,  which  thrill  unmeaning 
woe 

Even  in  their  sweetness.    So  no  earthly  wing 

E'er  sweeps  me  but  to  sadden.  Oh,  place 
Thou 

My  heart  beyond  the  world's  sad  vibrat 
ing — 

And  where  but  in  Thyself  ?     Oh,  circle  me, 

That  I  may  feel  no  touches  save  of  Thee. 


jftetmim 

All  good  thoughts  stir  within  me,  and  re 
new 

Their  slumbering  strength  divine  ; 
Till  there  springs  up  a  courage  high  and  true 

To  suffer  and  to  do. 


JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN 


59 


And    who    shall    say,    but   hateful   spirits 

around, 

For  their  brief  hour  unbound, 
Shudder  to  see,  and  wail  their  overthrow  ? 

While  on  far  heathen  ground 
Sonic    lonely  Saint   hails    the  fresh   odor, 

though 
Its  source  he  cannot  know. 

ENGLAND 

TYRE  of  the  West,  and  glorying  in  the  name 

More  than  in  Faith's  pure  fame  1 
0  trust  not  crafty  fort  nor  rock  renown'd 
Earn'd  upon  hostile  ground  ; 
Yielding  Trade's  master-keys,  at  thy  proud 

will 

lock  or  loose  its  waters,  England  !  trust 
not  still. 

thine  own  power  !     Since  haughty 
Babel's  prime, 

[igh  towers  have  been  man's  crime, 
iince  her  hoar  age,  when  the  huge  moat 
^^     lay  bare, 

Strongholds  have  been  man's  snare. 
Thy  nest  is  in  the  crags;  ah,  refuge  frail  ! 
Mad  counsel  in  its  hour,  or  traitors,  will 
prevail. 

He  who  scann'd  Sodom  for  His  righteous 

men 

Still  spares  thee  for  thy  ten  ; 
But,   should   vain   tongues   the    Bride    of 

Heaven  defy, 
He  will  not  pass  thee  by  ; 
For,  as  earth's  kings  welcome  their  spotless 

guest, 
So  gives  He  them  by  turn,  to  suffer  or  be 

blest. 

REVERSES 

WHEN  mirth  is  full  and  free, 
Some  sudden  gloom  shall  be  ; 
When  haughty  power  mounts  high, 
The  Watcher's  axe  is  nigh. 
All  growth  has  bound  ;  when  greatest  found, 
It  hastes  to  die. 

When  the  rich  town,  that  long 
Has  lain  its  huts  among, 
Uprears  its  pageants  vast, 
And  vaunts  —  it  shall  not  last  I 
1  Bright  tints  that  shine  are  but  a  sign 
Of  summer  past. 


And  when  thine  eye  surveys, 
With  fond  adoring  gaze, 
And  yearning  heart,  thy  friend, 
Love  to  its  grave  doth  tend. 
All  gifts  below,  save  Truth,  but  grow 
Towards  an  end. 

THE   PILLAR  OF  THE  CLOUD 

LEAD,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling 

gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
The   night   is  dark,  and  I  am   far  from 

home  — 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 

Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene,  —  one  step  enough  for 
me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  lov'd  to  choose   and  see  my  path  ;  but 

now 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
I    lov'd    the    garish    day,  and,    spite    of 

fears, 

Pride  rul'd  my  will :  remember  not  past 
years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  bless'd  me,  sure  it 

still 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent, 

till 

The  night  is  gone  ; 
And    with    the    morn    those  angel  faces 

smile 
Which  I   have  lov'd  long  since,  and  lost 

awhile. 

THE  ELEMENTS 

(A   TRAGIC   CHORUS) 

MAN  is  permitted  much 

To  scan  and  learn 

In  Nature's  frame  ; 
Till  he  well-nieh  can  tame 
Brute  mischiefs,  and  can  touch 
Invisible  things,  and  turn 
All  warring  ills  to  purposes  of  good. 
Thus,  as  a  god  below, 

He  can  control, 

And  harmonize,  what  seems  amiss  to  flow 
As  sever'd  from  the  whole 
And  dimly  understood. 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


But  o'er  the  elements 
One  Hand  alone, 
One  Hand  has  sway. 
What  influence  day  by  day 
In  straiter  belt  prevents 
The  impious  Ocean,  thrown 
Alternate  o'er  the  ever-sounding  shore  ? 
Or  who  has  eye  to  trace 

How  the  Plague  came  ? 
Forerun  the  doublings  of  the  Tempest's 

race? 

Or  the  Air's  weight  and  flame 
On  a  set  scale  explore  ? 


Thus  God  has  will'd 
That  man,  when  fully  skill'd, 
Still  gropes  in  twilight  dim; 
Encompass'd  all  his  hours 

By  fearf ullest  powers 
Inflexible  to  him. 
That  so  he  may  discern 

His  feebleness, 
And  e'en  for  earth's  success 
To  Him  in  wisdom  turn, 
Who  holds   for  us   the  keys  of  either 

home, 
Earth  and  the  world  to  come. 


Cofoifcgc 


FROM  "PHANTASMION" 

ONE  FACE  ALONE 

ONE  face  alone,  one  face  alone, 

These  eyes  require  ; 
But,  when  that  long'd-for  sight  is  shown, 

What  fatal  fire 
Shoots  through  my  veins  a  keen  and  liquid 

flame, 
That  melts  each  fibre  of  my  wasting  frame! 

One  voice  alone,  one  voice  alone, 

I  pine  to  hear  ; 
But,  when  its  meek  mellifluous  tone 

Usurps  mine  ear, 
Those  slavish   chains  about  my   soul   are 

wound, 

Which  ne'er,  till  death  itself,  can  be  un 
bound. 

One  gentle  hand,  one  gentle  hand, 

I  fain  would  hold  ; 
But,  when  it  seems  at  my  command, 

My  own  grows  cold  ; 


Then  low  to  earth  I  bend  in  sickly  swoon, 
Like    lilies    drooping   'mid    the   blaze    of 
noon. 

HE  CAME  UNLOOK'D  FOR 

HE  came  unlook'd  for,  undesir'd, 
A  sunrise  in  the  northern  sky, 
More  than  the  brightest  dawn  admir'd, 
To  shine  and  then  forever  fly. 

His  love,  conferr'd  without  a  claim, 
Perchance  was  like  the  fitful  blaze, 
Which  lives  to  light  a  steadier  flame, 
And,  while  that  strengthens,  fast  decays. 

Glad  fawn  along  the  forest  springing, 
Gay  birds  that  breeze-like  stir  the  leaves, 
Why  hither  haste,  no  message  bringing, 
To  solace  one  that  deeply  grieves  ? 

Thou  star  that  dost  the  skies  adorn, 
So  brightly  heralding  the  day, 
Bring  one  more  welcome  than  the  morn, 
Or  still  in  night's  dark  prison  stay. 


AS   YONDER   LAMP 

As  yonder  lamp  in  my  vacated  room 
With  arduous  flame  disputes  the  darksome 

night, 
And  can,  with  its  involuntary  light, 


But  lifeless  things  that  near  it  stand,  illume;  j 
Yet  all  the  while  it  doth  itself  consume 
And,  ere  the  sun  begin  its  heavenly  height 
With  courier  beams  that  meet  the  shep-j 

herd's  sight, 
There,  whence  its  life  arose,  shall   be  its) 

tomb  :  — 


WHITEHEAD  —  STERLING 


61 


So  wastes  my  life  away.     Perforce  conftn'd 
To  common  things,  a  limit  to  its  sphere, 
It  shines  on  worthless  trifles  undesign'd, 


SHAKESPEARE 

How  little  fades  from  earth  when  sink  to 

rest 
The  hours  and  cares  that  mov'd  a  great 

man's  breast ! 
Though  naught  of  all  we  saw  the  grave  may 

spare, 

His  life  pervades  the  world's  impregnate  air; 
Though  Shakespeare's  dust  beneath  our 

footsteps  lies, 

His  spirit  breathes  amid  his  native  skies  ; 
With  meaning  won  from  him  forever  glows 
Each  air  that  England   feels,  and  star  it 

knows  ; 
His  whisper'd  words  from  many  a  mother's 

voice 

Can  make  her  sleeping  child  in  dreams  re 
joice, 
And  gleams  from  spheres  he  first  conjoin'd 

to  earth 
Are  blent  with  rays  of  each  new  morning's 

birth. 

Amid  the  sights  and  tales  of  common  things, 
Leaf,  flower,  and  bird,  and  wars,  and  deaths 

of  kings, 

Of  shore,  and  sea,  and  nature's  daily  round, 
Of  life  that  tills,  and  tombs  that  load  the 

ground, 
His  visions  mingle,  swell,  command,  pace 

And  haunt  with  living  presence  heart  and 

eye; 

And  tones  from  him  by  other  bosoms  caught 
Awaken  flush  and  stir  of  mounting  thought, 
And  the  long  sigh,  and  deep  impassion'd 

thrill, 

Rouse  custom's  trance,  and  spur  the  falter 
ing  will. 

Above  the  goodly  land  more  his  than  ours 
He  sits  supreme  enthron'd  in  skyey  towers, 
And  sees  the  heroic  brood  of  his  creation 
Teach  larger  life  to  his  ennobled  nation. 
0  shaping  brain  !   O  flashing  fancy's  hues  ! 
0   boundless   heart   kept   fresh   by  pity's 
dews  ! 


With  fainter  ray  each  hour  impriaon'd  here. 
Alas  !  to  know  that  the  consuming  miiul 
Shall  leave  its  lamp  cold,  ere  the  sun  appear! 


O  wit  humane  and  blithe  1  O  sense  sublime 
For  each  dim  oracle  of  mantled  Time  I 
Transcendent  Form  of  Man  1  in  whom  we 

read 
Mankind's  whole  tale  of  Impulse,  Thought, 

and  Deed  ; 

Amid  the  expanse  of  years  beholding  theet 
We  know  how  vast  our  world  of  life  may  be  ; 
Wherein,  perchance,  with  aims  as  pure  as 

thine, 
Small  tasks  and  strengths  may  be  no  let! 

divine. 

LOUIS   XV 

THE  King  with  all  his  kingly  train 

Had  left  his  Pompadour  behind, 

And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood 

The  royal  beasts  of  chase  to  find. 

That  day  by  chance  the  Monarch  mused, 

And  turning  suddenly  away, 

He  struck  alone  into  a  path 

That  far  from  crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play 
Upon  the  brown  untrodden  earth  ; 
He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit 
As  if  he  were  of  peasant  birth  ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  know  no  king 
But  him  who  bears  a  woodland  axe  ; 
He  thought  not,  but  he  look'd  about 
Like  one  who  skill  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell, 

And  glad  of  human  sound  was  he, 

For  truth  to  say  he  found  himself 

A  weight  from  which  he  fain  would  flee. 

But  that  which  he  would  ne'er  have  guese'd 

Before  him  now  most  plainly  came  ; 

The  man  upon  his  weary  back 

A  coffin  bore  of  rudest  frame. 

"Why,   who    art  thou?"    exclaim'd    the 

King, 

"  And  what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear  ?  • 
"  I  am  a  laborer  in  the  wood, 
And  't  is  a  coffin  for  Pierre. 


62 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge 
You  may  have  often  seen  him  toil  ; 
But  he  will  never  work  again, 
And  I  for  him  must  dig  the  soil." 

The  laborer  ne'er  had  seen  the  King, 
And  this  he  thought  was  but  a  man, 
Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  pause, 
And  then  anew  his  talk  began  : 
"  I  think  I  do  remember  now,  — 
He  had  a  dark  and  glancing  eye, 
And  I  have  seen  his  slender  arm 
With  wondrous  blows  the  pick-axe  ply. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what  accident 
Can  thus  have  kill'd  our  good  Pierre  ?  " 
"Oh!  nothing  more  than  usual,  Sir, 
He  died  of  living  upon  air. 
'T  was  hunger  kill'd  the  poor  good  man, 
Who  long  on  empty  hopes  relied  ; 
He  could  not  pay  gabell  and  tax, 
And  feed  his  children,  so  he  died." 

The   man   stopp'd   short,  and   then   went 

on,— 

"  It  is,  you  know,  a  common  thing  ; 
Our  children's  bread  is  eaten  up 
By  Courtiers,  Mistresses,  and  King." 
The  King  look'd  hard  upon  the  man, 
And  afterwards  the  coffin  eyed, 
Then  spurr'd  to  ask  of  Pompadour, 
How  came  it  that  the  peasants  died. 


TO   A   CHILD 

DEAR  child  !  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame, 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame, 
Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves 
Caine  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 


With  bright  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go, 
And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play, 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day, 
And  brow  so  calm,  a  home  for  Thought 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought  ; 
Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 
Thou  brightenest  well  the  wise  man's  loto 

That  shout  proclaims  the  undoubting  mind, 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind  ; 
And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  unthought  of,  simply  free, 
How  weak  the  schoolman's  formal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part ! 
I  hail  thee  Childhood's  very  Lord, 
In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 
A  thing  thou  art  of  present  cheer  ; 
And  thus  to  be  belov'd  and  known 
As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone, 
As  is  the  forest's  leafy  shade, 
Or  blackbird's  hidden  serenade  : 
Thou  art  a  flash  that  lights  the  whole  ; 
A  gush  from  Nature's  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  Child  !  within  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives, 
That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air, 
Than  ail  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair  ; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee, 
For  'mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  perfect  Heart  and  Will  of  Man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be  ; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  gos 
Ever  within  not  loud  but  clear 
Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear, 
And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 


3[ane 


TO   A   SWALLOW   BUILDING 
UNDER    OUR   EAVES 

THOU  too  hast  traveled,  little  fluttering 
thing  — 


Hast  seen  the  world,  and  now  thy  weary  wing 

Thou  too  must  rest. 
But  much,  my  little  bird,  couldst  thou  but 

tell, 
I'd  give  to  know  why  here  thou  lik'st  so  well 

To  build  thy"  nest. 


JANE  CARLYLE  — TRENCH 


For  thou  hast  pass'd  fair  places  in  thy  flight; 
A  world  lay  all  beneath  thee  where  to  light; 

And,  strange  thy  taste, 
Of  all  the  varied  scenes  that  met  thine  eye, 
Of  all  the  spots  for  building  'neath  the  sky, 

To  choose  this  waste. 

)id  fortune  try  thee  ?  was  thy  little  purse 
jrchance   run  low,   and   thou,    afraid  of 

worse, 

Felt  here  secure  ? 
no  !  thou  need'st  not  gold,  thou  happy 

one  ! 

know'st  it  not.    Of  all  God's  crea 
tures,  man 
Alone  is  poor. 

was  it,  then  ?  some  mystic  turn  of 

thought 
Jaught  under  German  eaves,  and   hither 

brought, 

Marring  thine  eye 
Tor  the   world's   loveliness,   till  thou  art 

grown 

sober  thing  that  dost  but  mope  and  moan, 
Not  knowing  why  ? 


Nay,  if  thy  mind  be  sound,   1   need  not 

ask, 
Since  here  I  see  thee  working  at  thy  U»k 

With  wing  and  beak. 
A  well-laid  scheme  doth  that  small  head 

contain, 
At  which  thou  work'st,  brave  bird,  with 

might  and  main, 
Nor  more  need'st  seek. 

In  truth,  I  rather  take  it  thou  hast  got 
By  instinct  wise  much  sense  about  thy  lot, 

And  hast  small  care 
Whether  an  Eden  or  a  desert  be 
Thy  home,  so  thou  remainst  alive,  and 
free 

To  skim  the  air. 

God  speed  thee,  pretty  bird  ;  may  thy  small 

nest 
With  little  ones  all  in  good  time  be  blest. 

I  love  thee  much  ; 

For  well  thou  managest  that  life  of  thine, 
While  I !     Oh,  ask  not  what  I  do  with 

mine  1 
Would  I  were  such  1 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE 

WE  crown'd   the   hard-won  heights   at 
length, 

Baptiz'd  in  flame  and  fire  ; 
We  saw  the  foeman's  sullen  strength, 

That  grimly  made  retire  — 

Saw  close  at  hand,  then  saw  more  far 

Beneath  the  battle-smoke 
The  ridges  of  his  shatter'd  war, 

That  broke  and  ever  broke. 

But  one,  an  English  household's  pride, 

Dear  many  ways  to  me, 
Who  climb'd  that  death-path  by  my  side, 

I  sought,  but  could  not  see. 

Last  seen,  what  time  our  foremost  rank 

That  iron  tempest  tore  ; 
He  touch'd,  he  scal'd  the  rampart  bank  — 

Seen  then,  and  seen  no  more. 


to  Crenel) 

One  friend  to  aid,  I  measur'd  back 
With  him  that  pathway  dread  ; 

No  fear  to  wander  from  our  track  — 
Its  waymarks  English  dead. 

Light  thicken'd  :    but  our  search  wti 
crown'd, 

As  we  too  well  divin'd  ; 
And  after  briefest  quest  we  found 

What  we  most  fear'd  to  find. 

His  bosom  with  one  death-shot  riven, 

The  warrior-boy  lay  low  ; 
His  face  was  turn'd  unto  the  heaven, 

His  feet  unto  the  foe. 

As  he  had  fallen  upon  the  plain, 

Inviolate  he  lay  ; 
No  ruffian  spoiler's  hand  profane 

Had  touch'd  that  noble  clay. 

And  precious  things  he  still  retain'd, 
Which,  by  one  distant  hearth, 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


Lov'd  tokens  of  the  lov'd,  had  gain'd 
A  worth  beyond  all  worth. 

I  treasur'd  these  for  them  who  yet 

Knew  not  their  mighty  wo  ; 
I  softly  seal'd  his  eyes,  and  set 

One  kiss  upon  his  brow. 

A  decent  grave  we  scoop'd  him,  where 

Less  thickly  lay  the  dead, 
And  decently  compos'd  him  there 

Within  that  narrow  bed. 

O  theme  for  manhood's  bitter  tears  : 

The  beauty  and  the  bloom 
Of  less  than  twenty  summer  years 

Shut  in  that  darksome  tomb  ! 

Of  soldier-sire  the  soldier-son  ; 

Life's  honor'd  eventide 
One  lives  to  close  in  England,  one 

In  maiden  battle  died  : 

And  they,  that    should  have   been  the 
mourn'd, 

The  mourners'  parts  obtain  : 
Such  thoughts  were  ours,  as  we  return'd 

To  earth  its  earth  again. 

Brief  words  we  read  of  faith  and  prayer 

Beside  that  hasty  grave ; 
Then  turn'd  away,  and  left  him  there, 

The  gentle  and  the  brave  : 


I  calling  back  with  thankful  heart, 
With  thoughts  to  peace  allied, 

Hours  when  we  two  had  knelt  apart 
Upon  the  lone  hillside  ; 

And,  comforted,  I  prais'd  the  grace 
Which  him  had  led  to  be 

An  early  seeker  of  that  Face 
Which  he  should  early  see. 


SONNET 

ALL  beautiful  things  bring  sadness,  nor 

alone 

Music,  whereof  that  wisest  poet  spake  ; 
Because  in  us  keen  longings  they  awake 
After  the  good  for  which  we  pine  and  groan, 
From    which    exil'd   we    make    continual 

moan, 

Till  once  again  we  may  our  spirits  slake 
At  those  clear  streams,  which  man  did  first 

forsake, 
When  he  would  dig  for  fountains  of  his 

own. 

All  beauty  makes  us  sad,  yet  not  in  vain  : 
For  who  would  be  ungracious  to  refuse, 
Or  not  to  use,  this  sadness  without  pain, 
Whether  it  flows  upon  us  from  the  hues 
Of   sunset,   from   the   time   of    stars   and 

dews, 
From  the   clear  sky,  or  waters  pure   of 

stain  ? 


THE   OLD   BARON 

HIGH  on  a  leaf-carv'd  ancient  oaken  chair 
The  Norman  Baron  sat  within  his  hall, 
Wearied  with  a  long  chase  by  wold  and 

mere  ; 
His  hunting  spear  was  rear'd  against  the 

wall ; 
Upon  the   hearth-stone  a  large  wood-fire 

blaz'd, 
Crackled,  or  smok'd,  or  hiss'd,  as  the  green 

boughs  were  rais'd. 

Above  an  arch'd  and  iron-studded  door, 
The  grim  escutcheon's  rude  devices  stood  ; 


On  each  side  rear'd  a  black  and  gristly 
boar, 

With  hearts  and  daggers  grav'd  on  grounds 
of  blood, 

And  deep-dyed  gules  o'er  which  plum'd  hel 
mets  frown ; 

Beneath  this  motto  ran,  —  "  Beware  !  I 
trample  down." 

And  high  around  were  suits  of  armor  placed, 
And  shields  triangular,  with  the  wild-boar's 

head  ; 
Arrows,  and  bows,  and  swords  the  rafters 

graced, 
And  red-deer's  antlers  their  wide  branches 


MILLER—  HANMER  — HOUGHTON 


A  rough  wolf's  hide  was  nail'd  upon  the  wall, 
Its  white  teeth  clench'd  as  when  it  in  the 
dell  did  fall. 

An  angel-lamp  from  the  carv'd  ceiling 
hung  ; 

Its  outstretch'd  wings  the  blazing  oil  con 
tain  'd, 

While  its  long  figure  in  the  wide  hall 
swung, 

Blackening  the  roof  to  which  its  arms  were 
chain'd  ; 

The  iron  hair  fell  backward  like  a  veil, 

And  through  the  gusty  door  it  sent  a  weary 

The  heavy  arras  flutter'd  in  the  wind 
That  through  the  grated  windows  sweeping 

came, 

And  in  its  foldings  glitter'd  hart  and  hind, 
While  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  kir- 

tled  dame, 


3Nm, 

THE   PINE   WOODS 


WE  stand  upon  the  moorish  mountain  side, 
From  age  to  age,  a  solemn  company  ; 
There  are  no  voices  in  our  paths,  but  we 
Hear  the  great  whirlwinds  roaring  loud  and 

wide  ; 
And  like  the  sea-waves  have  our  boughs 

replied, 

From  the  beginning,  to  their  stormy  glee  ; 
The  thunder  rolls  above  us,  and  some  tree 


Moved  on  the  curtaiu'd  waves,  then 

shade, 
Just  as  the  fitful  wind  along  the  arraa 

played. 

On  the  oak  table,  filled  with  blood-red  wine, 
A  silver  cup  of  quaint  engraving  stood, 
On  which  a  thin-liinb'd  stag  of  old  design, 
Chas'd  by  six  long-ear'd  dogs,  made  for  a 

wood  ; 

Sounding  a  horn  a  huntsman  stood  in  view, 
Whose  swollen  cheeks  uprais'd  the  silver  aa 

he  blew. 

At  the  old  Baron's  feet  a  wolf-dog  lay, 
Watching  his  features  with  unflinching  eye; 
An  aged  minstrel,  whose  long  locks  were 

gray, 

On  an  old  harp  his  wither'd  hands  did  try  ; 
A  crimson  banner's  rustling  folds  hung  low, 
And  threw  a  rosy  light  upon  his  wrinkled 

brow. 


Smites  with  his  bolt,  yet  doth  the  race 
abide, 

Answering  all  times  ;  but  joyous,  when  the 
sun 

Glints  on  the  peaks  that  clouds  no  longer 
bear, 

And  the  young  shoots  to  flourish  have  be 
gun, 

And  the  quick  seeds  through  the  blue 
odorous  air 

From  the  expanding  cones  fall  one  by  one  ; 

And  silence  as  in  temples  dwelleth  there. 


lorfc  Dougluon 

(RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES) 


AN  ENVOY  TO  AN  AMERICAN 
LADY 

BEYOND  the  vague  Atlantic  deep, 
Far  as  the  farthest  prairies  sweep, 
Where  forest-glooms  the  nerve  appal, 
Where  burns  the  radiant  Western  fall, 


One  duty  lies  on  old  and  young,  — 

With  filial  piety  to  guard, 

As  on  its  greenest  native  sward, 

The  glory  of  the  English  tongue. 

That  ample  speech  1     That  subtle  speech  I 

Apt  for  the  need  of  all  and  each  : 

Strong  to  endure,  yet  prompt  to  bend 

Wherever  human  feelings  tend. 


66 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


Preserve  its  force  —  expand  its  powers  ; 
And  through  the  maze  of  civic  life, 
In  Letters,  Commerce,  even  in  Strife, 
Forget  not  it  is  yours  and  ours. 

THE  BROOK-SIDE 

I  WANDER'D  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wander'd  by  the  mill ; 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree  ; 
J  watch'd  the  long,  long  shade, 
And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 
I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 
For  I  listen'd  for  a  footfall, 


I  listen'd  for  a  word, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not  — 

The  night  came  on  alone, 

The  little  stars  sat,  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 

The  evening  wind  pass'd  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirr'd, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind  ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer  —  nearer, 
We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


jf  ramcg  3Unne  feem&fe 


THE   BLACK  WALL-FLOWER 

I  FOUND  a  flower  in  a  desolate  plot, 
Where  no  man  wrought,  —  by  a  deserted 

cot, 
Where  no  man  dwelt ;    a  strange,  dark- 

color'd  gem, 

Black  heavy  buds  on  a  pale  leafless  stem. 
I  pluck'd  it,  wondering,  and  with  it  hied 
To  my  brave  May,  and  showing  it  I  cried  : 
"  Look,  what  a  dismal  flower  !    did  ever 

bloom, 
Born  of   our  earth  and  air,  wear  such  a 

gloom  ? 

It  looks  as  it  should  grow  out  of  a  tomb  : 
Is  it  not  mournful  ?  "     "  No,"  replied  the 

child  ; 

And,  gazing  on  it  thoughtfully,  she  smil'd. 
She  knows  each  word  of  that  great  book  of 

God, 
Spread  out  between  the  blue  sky  and  the 

sod  : 
"  There  are  no  mournful  flowers  —  they  are 

all  glad ; 
This  is  a  solemn  one,  but  not  a  sad." 


Lo  !  with  the  dawn  the  black  buds  open'd 

slowly. 

Within  each  cup  a  color  deep  and  holy, 
As  sacrificial  blood,  glow'd  rich  and  red, 
And   through   the  velvet  tissue   mantling 

spread  ; 
While  in  the  midst  of  this  dark  crimson 

heat 
A  precious   golden  heart   did  throb   and 

beat ; 
Through  ruby  leaves  the  morning  light  did 

shine, 

Each  mournful  bud  had  grown  a  flow'r  di 
vine  ; 

And  bitter  sweet  to  senses  and  to  soul, 
A  breathing  came  from  them,  that  fill'd  the 

whole 
Of    the   surrounding    tranced    and   sunny 

air 
With  its  strange   fragrance,  lil^e  a  silent 

prayer. 
Then   cried   I,  "From   the   earth's  whole 

wreath  I  '11  borrow 
No  flower  but  thee  !  thou  exquisite  type  of 

sorrow  ! " 


KEMBLE—  ALFORD  —  MITFORD 


FAITH 

BETTER  trust  all  and  be  deceiv'd, 
And  weep  that  trust,  and  that  deceiv 
ing* 


LADY   MARY 

THOU  wert  fair,  Lady  Mary, 

As  the  lily  in  the  sun  : 
And  fairer  yet  thou  mightest  be, 

Thy  youth  was  but  begun  : 
Thine  eye  was  soft  and  glancing, 

Of  the  deep  bright  blue  ; 
And  on  the  heart  thy  gentle  words 

Fell  lighter  than  the  dew. 

They  found  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

With  thy  palms  upon  thy  breast, 
Even  as  thou  hadst  been  praying, 

At  thine  hour  of  rest : 
The  cold  pale  moon  was  shining 

On  thy  cold  pale  cheek  ; 
And  the  morn  of  the  Nativity 

Had  just  begun  to  break. 

They  carv'd  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

All  of  pure  white  stone, 
With  thy  palms  upon  thy  breast, 

In  the  chancel  all  alone  : 
And  I  saw  thee  when  the  winter  moon 

Shone  on  thy  marble  cheek, 
When  the  morn  of  the  Nativity 

Had  just  begun  to  break. 

But  thou  kneelest,  Lady  Mary, 
With  thy  palms  upon  thy  breast, 

Among  the  perfect  spirits, 
In  the  land  of  rest  • 


Than  doubt  one  heart  that,  if  belie  vM, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  overtakes  our  youth  I 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 


Thou  art  even  as  they  took  thee 

At  thine  hour  of  prayer, 
Save  the  glory  that  is  on  thee 

From  the  sun  that  shineth  there. 

We  shall  see  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

On  that  shore  unknown, 
A  pure  and  happy  angel 

In  the  presence  of  the  throne  ; 
We  shall  see  thee  when  the  light  divine 

Plays  freshly  on  thy  cheek, 
And  the  resurrection  morning 

Hath  just  begun  to  break. 

COLONOS 

COLONOS  !  can  it  be  that  thou  hast  still 
Thy  laurel  and  thine  olives  and  thy  vine  ? 
Do  thy  close-feather'd  nightingales  yet  trill 
Their  warbles  of  thick-sobbing  song  divine  ? 
Does  the  gold  sheen  of  the  crocus  o'er  thee 

shine 

And  dew-fed  clusters  of  the  daffodil, 
And   round    thy   flowery   knots   Cephisua 

twine, 

Aye  oozing  up  with  many  a  bubbling  rill  ? 
Oh,  might  I  stand  beside  thy  leafy  knoll, 
In  sight  of  the  far-off  city-towers,  and  see 
The  faithful-hearted  pure  Antigone 
Toward  the  dread  precinct,  leading  sad  and 

slow 

That  awful  temple  of  a  kingly  soul, 
Lifted  to  heaven  by  unexampled  woe  I 


THE   ROMAN   LEGIONS 

OH,  aged  Time  !  how  far,  and  long, 
Travell'd  have  thy  pinions  strong, 
Since  the  masters  of  the  world 


fl^itforti 


Here  their  eagle-wings  unfurl'd. 
Onward  as  the  legions  pass'd, 
Was  heard  the  Roman  trumoet's  blast, 
And  see  the  mountain  portals  old 
Now  their  opening  gates  unfold. 


63 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


Slow  moves  the  Consul's  car  between 
Bright  glittering  helms  and  axes  keen  ; 
O'er  moonlit  rocks,  and  ramparts  bare, 
High  the  Pretorian  banners  glare. 
Afar  is  heard  the  torrent's  moan, 
The  winds  through  rifted  caverns  groan  • 
The  vulture's  huge  primeval  nest, 
Wild  toss'd  the  pine  its  shatter'd  crest ; 
Darker  the  blackening  forest  frown'd  : 
Strange    murmurs    shook    the    trembling 

ground. 

In  the  old  warrior's  midnight  dream 
Gigantic  shadows  seem'd  to  gleam,  — 
The  Caudine  forks,  and  Cannae's  field 
Again  their  threatening  cohorts  yield. 
Seated  on  the  Thunderer's  throne, 
He  saw  the  shapes  of  gods  unknown, 
Saw  in  Olympus'  golden  hall 
The  volleyed  lightning  harmless  fall, 
The  great  and  Capitolian  lord 
Dim  sink,  'mid  nameless  forms  abhorr'd. 
Shook  the  Tarpeian  cliff  ;  around 
The  trembling  Augur  felt  the  sound  ; 
Saw,  God  of  Light !  in  deathly  shade, 
Thy  rich,  resplendent  tresses  fade, 


And  from  the  empty  car  of  day 
The  ethereal  coursers  bound  away. 

Then  frequent  rose  the  signal  shrill, 

Oft  heard  on  Alba's  echoing  hill, 

Or  down  the  Apulian  mountains  borne, 

The  mingled  swell  of  trump  and  horn  ; 

The  stern  centurion  frown'd  to  hear 

Unearthly  voices  murmuring  near  ; 

Back  to  his  still  and  Sabine  home 

Fond  thoughts  and  favorite  visions  roam. 

Sweet  Vesta  !  o'er  the  woods  again 

He  views  thy  small  and  silent  fane  ; 

He  sees  the  whitening  torrents  leap 

And  flash  round  Tibur's  mountain-steep  ; 

Sees  Persian  ensigns  wide  unroll'd, 

Barbaric  kings  in  chains  of  gold  ; 

O'er  the  long  Appian's  crowded  street, 

Sees  trophied  arms  and  eagles  meet, 

Through  the  tall  arch  their  triumph  pour, 

Till  rose  the  trumpet's  louder  roar  ; 

From  a  thousand  voices  nigh 

Burst  on  his  ear  the  banner-cry, 

And  o'er  the  concave  rocks,  the  sound 

«  AVRELIVS,"  smote  with  stern  rebound. 


WRITTEN   IN   EDINBURGH 

EVEN  thus,  methinks,  a  city  rear'd  should 

be, 

Yea,  an  imperial  city,  that  might  hold 
Five  times  an  hundred  noble  towns  in  fee, 
And  either  with  their  might  of  Babel  old, 
Or  the  rich  Roman  pomp  of  empery 
Might  stand  compare,  highest  in  arts  en- 

roll'd, 


Highest  in  arms  ;  brave  tenement  for  the 

free, 

Who  never  crouch  to  thrones,  or  sin  for  gold. 
Thus  should  her  towers  be  rais'd  —  with 

vicinage 
Of  clear  bold  hills,  that  curve   her  very 

streets, 

As  if  to  vindicate,  'mid  choicest  seats 
Of  art,  abiding  Nature's  majesty  ; 
And  the  broad  sea  beyond,  in  calm  or  rage 
Chainless  alike,  and  teaching  Liberty. 


Cljoniag  SDc  CJere 


AN   EPICUREAN'S   EPITAPH 

WHEN  from  my  lips  the  last  faint  sigh  is 

blown 

By  Death,  dark  waver  of  Lethean  plumes, 
0 1    press    not    then     with     monumental 
stone 


This  forehead  smooth,  nor  weigh  me  down 

with  glooms 

From  green  bowers,  gray  with  dew, 
Of  Rosemary  and  Rue. 
Choose  for  my  bed  some  bath  of  sculptur'd 

marble 

Wreath'd  with  gay  nymphs  ;  and  lay  me 
—  not  alone  — 


AUBREY   THOMAS  DE   VERB 


69 


Where  sunbeams   fall,  flowers    wave,  and 

li^lit  birds  warble, 
To  those  who  lov'd  me  murmuring  in  soft 

tone, 
"  Here  lies  our  friend,  from  pain  secure  and 

cold  ; 
And  spreads  his  limbs  in  peace  under  the 

suii-warm'd  mould  1 " 


FLOWERS    I   WOULD   BRING 

FLOWERS  I  would  bring  if  flowers  could 

make  thee  fairer, 

And  music,  if  the  Muse  were  dear  to  thee  ; 
(For  loving  these  would  make  thee  love  the 

bearer) 

But  sweetest  songs  forget  their  melody, 
And  loveliest  flowers  would  but  conceal  the 

wearer :  — 
A  rose  I  mark'd,  and  might  have  pluck'd  ; 

but  she 
Blush'd  as  she  bent,  imploring  me  to  spare 

her, 

Nor  spoil  her  beauty  by  such  rivalry. 
Alas  !  and  with  what  gifts  shall  I  pursue 

thee, 
What  offerings  bring,  what  treasures  lay 

before  thee  ; 
When  earth  with  all  her  floral  train  doth 

woo  thee, 

And  all  old  poets  and  old  songs  adore  thee  ; 
And  love  to  thee  is  naught ;  from  passionate 

mood 
Secur'd  by  joy's  complacent  plenitude  ! 


HUMAN   LIFE 

SAD  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet  ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing, 
In  current  unperceiv'd  because  so  fleet ; 
Sad  are  our  hopes  for  they  were  sweet  in 

sowing, 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopp'd  the 

wheat  ; 
Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in 

blowing ; 
And   still,  O  still,  their  dying  breath  is 

sweet  : 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft 

us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter 

still; 


And  sweet  our  life's  decline,  for  it  hath  left 

us 

A  nearer  Good  to  cure  an  older  111  : 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to 

prize  them 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  Uia  who  granU  them 

or  denies  them. 


SORROW 

COUNT  each  affliction,  whether  light  01 
grave, 

God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee  ;  do 
thou 

With  courtesy  receive  him  ;  rise  and  bow  ; 

And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold, 
crave 

Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave  ; 

Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast.     Allow 

No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow, 

Or  mar  thy  hospitality  ;  no  wave 

Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness.  Grief 
should  be 

Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,  sedate, 

Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free  ; 

Strong  to  consume  small  troubles  ;  to  com 
mend 

Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts 
lasting  to  the  end. 


LOVE'S    SPITE 

You  take  a  town  you  cannot  keep  ; 

And,  forced  in  turn  to  fly, 
O'er  ruins  you  have  made  shall  leap 

Your  deadliest  enemy  ! 
Her  love  is  yours  —  and  be  it  so  — 
But  can  you  keep  it  ?    No,  no,  no  I 

Upon  her  brow  we  gaz'd  with  awe, 
And  lov'd,  and  wish'd  to  love,  in  vain  \ 

But  when  the  snow  begins  to  thaw 
We  shun  with  scorn  the  miry  plain. 

Women  with  grace  may  yield  :  but  sfc« 

Appear'd  some  Virgin  Deity. 

Bright  was  her  soul  as  Dian's  crest 
Whitening  on  Vesta's  fane  its  sheen  : 

Cold  look'd  she  as  the  waveless  breast 
Of  some  stone  Dian  at  thirteen. 

Men  lov'd  :  but  hope  they  deein'd  to  be 

A  sweet  Impossibility  ! 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


THE   QUEEN'S   VESPERS 

HALF  kneeling  yet,  and  half  reclining, 
She  held  her  harp  against  her  knees  : 
Aloft  the  ruddy  roofs  were  shining, 

And  sunset  touch'd  the  trees. 
From  the  gold  border  gleam'd  like  snow 
Her  foot  :  a  crown  enrich'd  her  brow  : 
Dark  gems  confin'd  that  crimson  vest 
Close-moulded  on  her  neck  and  breast. 

In  silence  lay  the  cloistral  court 

And  shadows  of  the  convent  towers  : 
Well  order'd  now  in  stately  sort 
Those  royal  halls  and  bowers. 
The  choral  chaunt  had  just  swept  by  ; 
Bright  arms  lay  quivering  yet  on  high  I 
Thereon  the  warriors  gaz'd,  and  then 
Glanced  lightly  at  the  Queen  again. 

While  from  her  lip  the  wild  hymn  floated, 

Such  grace  in  those  uplifted  eyes 
And  sweet,  half  absent  looks,  they  noted 

That,  surely,  through  the  skies 
A  Spirit,  they  deem'd,  flew  forward  ever 
Above  that  song's  perpetual  river, 
And,  smiling  from  its  joyous  track, 
Upon  her  heavenly  face  look'd  back. 


CARDINAL   MANNING 

I  LEARN'D  his  greatness  first  at  Lavington  : 
The  inoon  had  early  sought  her  bed   of 

brine, 

But  we  discours'd  till  now  each  starry  sign 
Had  sunk  :    our  theme  was  one  and  one 

alone  : 
*  Two  minds  supreme,"  he  said,  "  our  earth 

has  known  ; 
One  sang  in  science;  one  serv'd  God  in 

song; 


TO   IMPERIA 

THOU  art  not,  and  thou  never  canst  be  mine  ; 

The  die  of  fate  for  me  is  thrown, 

And  thou  art  made 

No  more  to  me  than  some  resplendent  shade 


Aquinas  —  Dante."      Slowly.  in   me    grew 

strong 
A  thought,  "  These  two  great  minde  in  him 

are  one  ; 
'Lord,  what  shall  this  man  do  ?  '  '      Later 

at  Rome 

Beside  the  dust  of  Peter  and  of  Paul 
Eight  hundred  mitred  sires  of  Christendom 
In  Council  sat.     I  mark'd  him  'mid  them 

all; 

I  thought  of  that  long  night  in  years  gone  by 
And  cried,  "  At  last  my  question  meets  re- 


SONG 

SEEK  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 

And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name  while  yet  't  is  dark 

Upon  the  wood  ! 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 

And  wreaths  hard  won  : 
Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong 

hands, 
Till  day  is  done. 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek's  pale  roses, 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 

Her  soul  reposes  1 
Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man  !  true  knight  ! 

The  clash  of  arms 

Shall  more  prevail  than  whisper'd  tale, 
To  win  her  charms. 

The  warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love's  name  ; 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from  that  fight 

Lures  thee  to  shame  : 
That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free,  — 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 

Man-shap'd  like  thee. 


Flung  on  the  canvas  by  old  art  divine  ; 

Or  vision  of  shap'd  stone  ; 

Or  the  far  glory  of  some  starry  sign 

Which  hath  a  beauty  unapproachable 

To  aught  but  sight,  —  a  throne 

High  in  the  heavens  and  out  of  reach , 

Therefore  with  this  low  speech 


THOMAS    BURBIDGE 


_  jid  thee  now  a  long  and  last  farewell 
Ere  I  depart,  in  busy  crowds  to  dwell, 
Yet  be  alone. 

All  pleasures  of  this  pleasant  Earth  be 
thine  ! 

Yea,  let  her  servants  fondly  press 

Unto  thy  feet, 

Bearing  all  sights  most  fair,  all  scents  most 
sweet : 

Spring,  playing  with  her  wreath  of  budded 
vine  ; 

Summer,  with  stately  tress 

Prink'd  with  green  wheat-ears  and  the 
white  corn-bine  ; 

And  Autumn,  crown'd  from  the  yellow 
forest-tree  ; 

—  And  Winter,  in  his  dress 

Begemm'd  with  icicles,  from  snow  dead- 
white 

Shooting  their  wondrous  light  ; 

These  be  thine  ever.     But  I  ask  of  thee 

One  blessing  only  to  beseech  for  me,  — 

Forgetfulness. 

IF    I    DESIRE 

IF  I  desire  with  pleasant  songs 
To  throw  a  merry  hour  away, 

Conies  Love  unto  me,  and  my  wrongs 
In  careful  tale  he  doth  display, 

And  asks  me  how  I  stand  for  singing 

While  I  my  helpless  hands  am  wringing. 

And  then  another  time  if  I 

A  noon  in  shady  bower  would  pass, 
Comes  he  with  stealthy  gestures  sly 

And  flinging  down  upon  the  grass, 
Quoth  he  to  me  :  My  master  dear, 
Think  of  this  noontide  such  a  year  ! 

And  if  elsewhere  I  lay  my  head 
On  pillow  with  intent  to  sleep, 

Lies  Love  beside  me  on  the  bed, 

And  gives  me  ancient  words  to  keep  ; 

Says  he  :  These  looks,  these  tokens  number, 

May  be,  they  '11  help  you  to  a  slumber. 

every  time  when  I  would  yield 
An  hour  to  quiet,  comes  he  still ; 
hunts  up  every  sign  conceal'd 
And  every  outward  sign  of  ill  ; 
And  gives  me  his  sad  face's  pleasures 
For  merriment's  or  sleep's  or  leisure's. 


MOTHER'S   LOVE 

HE  sang  so  wildly,  did  the  Boy, 

That  you  could  never  tell 

If  't  was  a  madman's  voice  you  heard. 

Or  if  the  spirit  of  a  bird 

Within  his  heart  did  dwell  : 

A  bird  that  dallies  with  his  voice 

Among  the  matted  branches  ; 

Or  on  the  free  blue  air  his  note 

To  pierce,  and  fall,  and  rise,  and  float, 

With  bolder  utterance  launches. 

None  ever  was  so  sweet  as  he, 

The  boy  that  wildly  sang  to  me  ; 

Though  toilsome  was  the  way  and  long, 

He  led  me  not  to  lose  the  song. 

But  when  again  we  stood  below 

The  unhidden  sky,  his  feet 

Grew  slacker,  and  his  note  more  slow, 

But  more  than  doubly  sweet. 

He  led  me  then  a  little  way 

Athwart  the  barren  moor, 

And  then  he  stayed  and  bade  me  stay 

Beside  a  cottage  door  ; 

I  could  have  stayed  of  mine  own  will, 

In  truth,  my  eye  and  heart  to  fill 

With  the  sweet  sight  which  I  saw  there 

At  the  dwelling  of  the  cottager. 

A  little  in  the  doorway  sitting. 

The  mother  plied  her  busy  knitting, 

And  her  cheek  so  softly  smil'd, 

You  might  be  sure,  although  her  gaze 

Was  on  the  meshes  of  the  lace, 

Yet  her  thoughts  were  with  her  child. 

But  when  the  boy  had  heard  her  voice, 

As  o'er  her  work  she  did  rejoice, 

His  became  silent  altogether, 

And  slily  creeping  by  the  wall, 

He  seiz'd  a  single  plume,  let  fall 

By  some  wild  bird  of  longest  feather  ; 

And  all  a-tremble  with  his  freak, 

He  touch'd  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

Oh,  what  a  loveliness  her  eyes 
Gather  in  that  one  moment's  space, 
While  peeping  round  the  post  she  spiel 
Her  darling's  laughing  face  ! 
Oh,  mother's  love  is  glorifying, 
On  the  cheek  like  sunset  lying  ; 
In  the  eyes  a  moisten'd  light, 
Softer  than  the  moon  at  night  I 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


EVENTIDE 

COMES  something  down  with  eventide 
Beside  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 

Beside  the  floating  scents,  beside 
The  twinkling  shadows  of  the  stars. 

Upon  the  river's  rippling  face, 

Flash  after  flash  the  white 
Broke  up  in  many  a  shallow  place  ; 

The  rest  was  soft  and  bright. 

By  chance  my  eye  fell  on  the  stream  ; 

How  many  a  marvellous  power, 
Sleeps    in   us,  —  sleeps,   and   doth  not 
dream  ! 

This  knew  I  in  that  hour. 


For  then  my  heart,  so  full  of  strife, 
No  more  was  in  me  stirr'd  ; 

My  life  was  in  the  river's  life, 
And  I  nor  saw  nor  heard. 

I  and  the  river,  we  were  one  : 
The  shade  beneath  the  bank, 

I  felt  it  cool  ;  the  setting  sun 
Into  my  spirit  sank. 

A  rushing  thing  in  power  serene 

I  was  ;  the  mystery 
I  felt  of  having  ever  been 

And  being  still  to  be. 

Was  it  a  moment  or  an  hour  ? 

I  knew  not  ;  but  I  mourn'd 
When  from  that  realm  of  awful  power 

I  to  these  fields  return'd. 


IMltam 


TIME  AND   DEATH 

I  SAW  old  Time,  destroyer  of  mankind  ; 
Calm,  stern,  and  cold  he  sate,  and  often 

shook 

And  turn'd  his  glass,  nor  ever  car'd  to  look 
How  many  of  life's  sands  were  still  behind. 
And  there  was  Death,  his  page,  aghast  to 

find 

How  tremblingly,  like  aspens  o'er  a  brook, 
His  blunted  dart  fell  harmless  ;  so  he  took 


IDflitltiorrti 

His  master's  scythe,  and  idly  smote  the 
wind. 

Smite  on,  thou  gloomy  one,  with  powerless 
aim  ! 

For  Sin,  thy  mother,  at  her  dying  breath 

Wither'd  that  arm,  and  left  thee  but  a  name. 

Hope  clos'd  the  grave,  when  He  of  Naza 
reth, 

Who  led  captivity  His  captive,  came 

And  vanquish'd  the  great  conquerors,  Time 
and  Death. 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 
(See  also :  B.  W.   PROCTER.) 


CHAMPAGNE   ROSE 

LILY  on  liquid  roses  floating  — 
^  So  floats  yon  foam  o'er  pink  champagne  : 
Fain  would  I  join  such  pleasant  boating, 
And  prove  that  ruby  main, 
And  float  away  on  wine  ! 


Those    seas    are     dangerous,    graybeards 

swear, 

Whose  sea-beach  is  the  goblet's  brim  ; 
And  true  it  is  they  drown  old  care  — 
But  what  care  we  for  him, 
So  we  but  float  on  wine  ! 


KEN  YON  — WILLIAM   HOWITT  — BAYLY 


73 


And  true  it  is  they  cross  in  pain, 

Who  sober  cross  the  Stygian  ferry  ; 

But  only  make  our  Styx  champagne, 
And  we  shall  cross  right  merry, 
Floating  away  in  wine  1 


Old  Charon's  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 
_*"••  gaNy  row  Ms  boat  from  shore  ; 
U  lulu  we,  and  every  jovial  fellow, 
Hear,  unconcern'd,  the  oar 
That  dips  itself  in  wine  I 


THE     DEPARTURE     OF     THE 
SWALLOW 

AND  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it? 

Which  way  sail'd  it  ? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go  : 

But  who  doth  hear 

Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 


So  the  freed  spirit  flies  ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither  ?  wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

'Tis  all  unknown  : 

We  feel  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 


SHE    WORE    A    WREATH     OF 
ROSES 

SHE  wore  a  wreath  of  roses 

The  night  that  first  we  met ; 
Her  lovely  face  was  smiling 

Beneath  her  curls  of  jet. 
Her  footstep  had  the  lightness, 

Her  voice  the  joyous  tone,  — - 
The  tokens  of  a  youthful  heart, 

Where  sorrow  is  unknown. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  summer  flowers 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

A  wreath  of  orange-blossoms, 

When  next  we  met,  she  wore  ; 
The  expression  of  her  features 

Was  more  thoughtful  than  before  ; 
And  standing  by  her  side  was  one 

Who  strove,  and  not  in  vain, 
To  soothe  her,  leaving  that  dear  home 

She  ne'er  might  view  again. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 


With  the  wreath  of  orange-blossoms 
Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

And  once  again  I  see  that  brow  ; 

No  bridal- wreath  is  there, 
The  widow's  sombre  cap  conceals 

Her  once  luxuriant  hair. 
She  weeps  in  silent  solitude, 

And  there  is  no  one  near 
To  press  her  hand  within  his  own, 

And  wipe  away  the  tear. 
I  see  her  broken-hearted  ; 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
In  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty, 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow. 

OH!  WHERE   DO   FAIRIES  HIDE 
THEIR   HEADS? 

OH  !  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads 

When  snow  lies  on  the  hills. 
When  frost  has  spoil'd  their  mossy  bed% 

And  crystalliz'd  their  rills  ? 
Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 

In  circles  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  tip 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 


74 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


Perhaps,  in  small,  blue  diving-bells, 

They  plunge  beneath  the  waves, 
Inhabiting  the  wreathed  shells 

That  lie  in  coral  caves  ; 
Perhaps,  in  red  Vesuvius, 

Carousals  they  maintain  ; 
And  cheer  their  little  spirits  thus, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 


When  they  return  there  will  be  mirth, 

And  music  in  the  air, 
And  fairy  wings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  everywhere. 
The  maids,  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain  ; 
No  key-hole  will  be  fairy-proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 


THE  SEA   FOWLER 

THE  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the 
fisher  hath  the  sea  ; 

But  the  rocky  haunts  of  the  sea-fowl  be 
long  alone  to  me. 

The  baron  hunts  the  running  deer,  the 
fisher  nets  the  brine  ; 

But  every  bird  that  builds  a  nest  on  ocean- 
cliffs  is  mine. 

Come  on  then,  Jock  and  Alick,  let 's  to  the 

sea-rocks  bold  : 
I  was  train'd  to  take  the  sea-fowl  ere  I  was 

five  years  old. 

The  wild  sea  roars,  and  lashes  the  granite 

crags  below, 
And  round  the  misty  islets  the  loud,  strong 

tempests  blow. 

And  let  them  blow  !  Roar  wind  and  wave, 
they  shall  not  me  dismay  ; 

I  've  faced  the  eagle  in  her  nest  and  snatch'd 
her  young  away. 

The  eagle  shall  not  build  her  nest,  proud 
bird  although  she  be, 

Nor  yet  the  strong-wing'd  cormorant,  with 
out  the  leave  of  me. 

The  eider-duck  has  laid  her  eggs,  the  tern 

doth  hatch  her  young, 
And  the  merry  gull  screams  o'er  her  brood  ; 

but  all  to  me  belong. 

Away,  then,  in  the  daylight,  and  back  again 

ere  eve  ; 
The  eagle  could  not  rear  her  young,  unless 

I  gave  her  leave. 


I^otoitt 

The  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the 

fisher  hath  the  sea  ; 
But  the  rocky  haunts  of  the  sea-fowl  be* 

long  alone  to  me. 


CORNFIELDS 

WHEN  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 
The  fair  white  thistle-down, 

Oh  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 

Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill  ! 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn, 
And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 

The  pil'd-up  stacks  of  corn  ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore. 

I  feel  the  day  — I  see  the  field, 
The  quivering  of  the  leaves, 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 
Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ; 

And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 

To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem 

And  reapers  many  a  one, 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke, 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabite  so  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again  I  see  a  little  child, 

His  mother's  sole  delight, 
God's  living  gift  of  love  unto 

The  kind  good  Shunammite  ; 
To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 
And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 


MARY   HOWITT  —  HERVEY 


75 


The  sun-bath'd  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see  ; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  takes  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 


Oh,  golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 
How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 

The  reaper-folk,  the  pil'd-up  sheaves, 
To  me  are  like  a  dream. 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 

Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there. 


€fjoma0  Jtibble 


I   THINK   ON   THEE 

THINK  on  thee  in  the  night, 
When  all  beside  is  still, 

the  moon  comes  out,  with  her  pale,  sad 

light, 
To  sit  on  the  lonely  hill ; 

•ii  the  stars  are  all  like  dreams, 
And  the  breezes  all  like  sighs, 

there  comes  a  voice  from  the  far-off 

streams 
Like  thy  spirit's  low  replies. 

think  on  thee  by  day, 

'Mid  the  cold  and  busy  crowd, 

m  the  laughter  of  the  young  and  gay 
Is  far  too  glad  and  loud. 

thy  soft,  sad  tone, 
And  thy  young,  sweet  smile  I  see  : 
heart  —  my  heart  were  all  alone, 
Jut  for  its  dreams  of  thee  ! 

thee  who  wert  so  dear,  — 
And  yet  I  do  not  weep, 

thine  eyes  were  stain'd  by  many  a  tear 
Before  they  went  to  sleep  ; 
nd,  if  I  haunt  the  past, 
Yet  may  I  not  repine 

thou  hast  won  thy  rest,  at  last, 
And  all  the  grief  is  mine. 

think  upon  thy  gain, 

Whate  er  to  me  it  cost, 
And  fancy  dwells  with  less  of  pain 

On  all  that  I  have  lost,  — 
Hope,  like  the  cuckoo's  oft-told  tale, 

Alas,  it  wears  her  wing  ! 


And  love  that,  like  the  nightingale, 
Sings  only  in  the  spring. 

Thou  art  my  spirit's  all, 

Just  as  thou  wert  in  youth, 
Still  from  thy  grave  no  shadows  fall 

Upon  my  lonely  truth  ; 
A  taper  yet  above  thy  tomb, 

Since  lost  its  sweeter  rays, 
And  what  is  memory,  through  the  gloom, 

Was  hope,  in  brighter  days. 

I  am  pining  for  the  home 

Where  sorrow  sinks  to  sleep, 
Where  the  weary  and  the  weepers  come, 

And  they  cease  to  toil  and  weep. 
Why  walk  about  with  smiles 

That  each  should  be  a  tear, 
Yain  as  the  summer's  glowing  spoils 

Flung  o'er  an  early  bier  ? 

Oh,  like  those  fairy  things, 

Those  insects  of  the  East, 
That  have  their  beauty  in  their  wings, 

And  shroud  it  while  at  rest ; 
That  fold  their  colors  of  the  sky 

When  earthward  they  alight, 
And  flash  their  splendors  on  the  eye, 

Only  to  take  their  flight ;  — 

I  never  knew  how  dear  thou  wert, 

Till  thou  wert  borne  away  ! 
I  have  it  yet  about  my  heart, 

The  beauty  of  that  day  ! 
As  if  the  robe  thou  wert  to  wear, 

Beyond  the  stars,  were  given 
That  I  might  learn  to  know  it  there, 

And  seek  thee  out,  in  heaven  1 


76 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


TRIPPING    DOWN    THE    FIELD- 
PATH 

TRIPPING  down  the  field-path, 

Early  in  the  morn, 
There  I  met  ray  own  love 

'Midst  the  golden  corn  ; 
Autumn  winds  were  blowing, 

As  in  frolic  chase, 
All  her  silken  ringlets 

Backward  from  her  face; 
Little  time  for  speaking 

Had  she,  for  the  wind, 
Bonnet,  scarf,  or  ribbon, 

Ever  swept  behind. 

Still  some  sweet  improvement 

In  her  beauty  shone  ; 
Every  graceful  movement 

Won  me,  —  one  by  one  ! 
As  the  breath  of  Venus 

Seemed  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Blowing  thus  between  us, 

'Midst  the  golden  corn. 
Little  time  for  wooing 

Had  we,  for  the  wind 
Still  kept  on  undoing 

What  we  sought  to  bind. 

Oh  !  that  autumn  morning 

In  my  heart  it  beams, 
Love's  last  look  adorning 

With  its  dream  of  dreams  : 
Still,  like  waters  flowing 

In  the  ocean  shell, 
Sounds  of  breezes  blowing 

In  my  spirit  dwell  ; 
Still  I  see  the  field-path  ;  — 

Would  that  I  could  see 
Her  whose  graceful  beauty 

Lost  is  now  to  me  ! 

TAKE  THE  WORLD  AS  IT  IS 

TAKE  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  there  are  good 

and  bad  in  it, 
And  good  and  bad  will  be  from  now  to 

the  end  ; 
And  they,  who  expect  to  make  saints  in  a 

minute, 

Are  in  danger  of  marring  more  hearts 
than  they  '11  mend. 


If  ye  wish  to  be  happy  ne'er  seek  for  the 

faults, 
Or  you  're   sure   to   find   something   or 

other  amiss  ; 
'Mid  much  that  debases,  and  much  that '  | 

exalts, 
The  world  's  not  a  bad  one  if  left  as  it  is. 

Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  if  the  surface  be   j  | 

shining, 
Ne'er  rake  up  the  sediment  hidden  be-   -I 

low! 
There  's  wisdom  in  this,  but  there  's  none   i| 

in  repining 
O'er  things  which  can  rarely  be  mended, 

we  know. 
There 's   beauty  around   us,  which   let   us   (I 

enjoy  ; 
And  chide  not,  unless  it  may  be  with  a 

kiss  ; 
Though  Earth 's  not  the  Heaven  we  thought 

when  a  boy, 
There  's  something  to  live  for,  if  ta'eu  as 
it  is. 

Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  with  its  smiles 

and  its  sorrow, 

Its   love  and  its  friendship,  —  its  false 
hood  and  truth, 
Its  schemes  that  depend  on  the  breath  of 

to-morrow, 
Its  hopes  which  pass  by  like  the  dreams 

of  our  youth  : 
Yet,  oh  !  whilst  the  light  of  affection  may 

shine, 
The  heart  in  itself  hath  a  fountain  of 

bliss  ; 
In  the  worst  there  's  some  spark  of  a  nature 

divine, 

And  the  wisest  and  best  take  the  world 
as  it  is. 

LIFE 

LIFE  's  not  our  own,  —  't  is  but  a  loan 

To  be  repaid  ; 

Soon  the  dark  Comer's  at  the  door, 
The  debt  is  due  :  the  dream  is  o'er,  — 

Life  's  but  a  shade. 

Thus  all  decline  that  bloom  or  shine, 
Both  star  and  flower  j 


SWAIN  —  COOK 


77 


*T  is  but  a  little  odor  shed, 
A  light  gone  out,  a  spirit  lied, 
A  funeral  hour. 

Then  let  us  show  a  tranquil  brow 

Whate'er  befalls  ; 
That  we  upon  life's  latest  brink 
May  look  on  Death's  dark  face,  —  and 
think 

An  angel  calls. 

THE   ROSE   THOU   GAV'ST 

THE  rose  thou  gav'st  at  parting  — 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  hour  ? 
The  moon  was  on  the  river, 

The  dew  upon  the  flower  : 
Thy  voice  was  full  of  tenderness, 

But,  ah  !  thy  voice  misleads  ; 
The  rose  is  like  thy  promises, 

Its  thorn  is  like  thy  deeds. 

The  winter  cometh  bleakly, 

And  dark  the  time  must  be  ; 
Bnt  I  can  deem  it  summer 

To  what  thou  'st  prov'd  to  me. 
The  snow  that  meets  the  sunlight 

Soon  hastens  from  the  scene  ; 
But  melting  snow  is  lasting, 

To  what  thy  faith  hath  been. 


'TWAS  JUST   BEFORE  THE  HAY 
WAS  MOWN 

'T  WAS  just  before  the  hay  was  mown, 

The  season  had  been  wet  and  cold, 
When  my  good  dame  began  to  groan, 

And  speak  of  days  and  years  of  old  : 
Ye  were  a  young  man  then,  and  gay, 

And  raven  black  your  handsome  hair  ; 
Ah  !  Time  steals  many  a  grace  away, 

And  leaves  us  many  a  grief  to  bear. 

Tush  !  tush  !  said  I,  we  've  had  our  time, 

And  if 't  were  here  again  't  would  go  ; 
The  youngest  cannot  keep  their  prime, 

The  darkest  head  some  gray  must  show. 
We  've  been  together  forty  years, 

And  though  it  seem  but  like  a  day, 
We  've  much  less  cause,  dear  dame,  for 
tears, 

Than  many  who  have  trod  life's  way. 

Goodman,  said  she,  ye  're  always  right, 

And  't  is  a  pride  to  hear  your  tongue  ; 
And  though  your  fine  old  head  be  white, 

'T  is  dear  to  me  as  when  't  were  young. 
So  give  your  hand,  —  't  was  never  shown 

But  in  affection  unto  me  ; 
And  I  shall  be  beneath  the  stone, 

Aiid  lifeless,  when  I  love  not  thee. 


<£ii;a  Cooft 


THE  QUIET  EYE 

THE  orb  I  like  is  not  the  one 

That  dazzles  with  its  lightning  gleam  ; 
That  dares  to  look  upon  the  sun, 

As  though  it  challenged  brighter  beam. 
That  orb  may  sparkle,  Hash,  and  roll  ; 

Its  fire  may  blaze,  its  shaft  may  fly  ; 
But  not  for  me  :  I  prize  the  soul 

That  slumbers  in  a  quiet  eye. 

There  's  something  in  its  placid  shade 

That  tells  of  calm,  unworldly  thought  ; 
Hope  may  be  crown'd,  or  joy  delay'd  — 

No  dimness  steals,  no  ray  is  caught. 
Its  pensive  language  seems  to  say, 

"I  know  that  I  must  close  and  die  ; " 
And  death  itself,  come  when  it  may, 

Can  hardly  change  the  quiet  eye. 


There  's  meaning  in  its  steady  glance. 

Of  gentle  blame  or  praising  love, 
That  makes  me  tremble  to  advance 

A  word,   that   meaning   might  re 
prove. 
The  haughty  threat,  the  fiery  look, 

My  spirit  proudly  can  defy, 
But  never  yet  could  meet  and  brook 

The  upbraiding  of  a  quiet  eye. 

There 's  firmness  in  its  even  light, 

That  augurs  of  a  breast  sincere  : 
And,  oh  !  take  watch  how  ye  excite 

That  firmness  till  it  yield  a  tear. 
Some  bosoms  give  an  easy  sigh, 

Some  drops    of    grief    will    freely 

start, 
But  that  which  sears  the  o,uiet  eye 

Hath  its  deep  fountain  in  the  heart 


78 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


THE  SEA-CHILD 

HE  crawls  to  the  cliff  and  plays  on  a  brink 
Where  every  eye  but  his  own  would  shrink  ; 
No  music  he  hears  but  the  billow's  noise, 
And  shells  and  weeds  are  his  only  toys. 
No  lullaby  can  the  mother  find 
To  sing  him  to  rest  like  the  moaning  wind  ; 
And  the  louder  it  wails  and  the  fiercer  it 

sweeps, 
The  deeper  he  breathes  and  the  sounder  he 

sleeps. 

And  now  his  wandering  feet  can  reach 
The  rugged  tracks  of  the  desolate  beach  ; 
Creeping  about  like  a  Triton  imp, 
To  find  the  haunts  of  the  crab  and  shrimp. 
He  clings,  with  none  to  guide  or  help, 
To  the  furthest  ridge  of  slippery  kelp  ; 
And  his  bold  heart  glows  while  he  stands 

and  mocks 
The  seamew's  cry  on  the  jutting  rocks. 


Few  years  have  wan'd  —  and  now  he  stanc 
Bareheaded  on  the  shelving  sands. 
A   boat  is   moor'd,  but   his   young 

cope 

Right  well  with  the  twisted  cable  rope  ; 
He  frees  the  craft,  she  kisses  the  tide  ; 
The  boy  has  climb'd  her  beaten  side  : 
She  drifts  —  she    floats  —  he    shouts  with 

glee; 
His  soul  hath  claim'd  its  right  on  the  sea. 

'T  is  vain  to  tell  him  the  howling  breath 
Rides    over  the   waters  with    wreck    and 

death  : 

He  '11  say  there  's  more  of  fear  and  pain 
On  the  plague-ridden  earth  than  the  storm- 

lash'd  main. 

'T  would  be  as  wise  to  spend  thy  power 
In  trying  to  lure  the  bee  from  the  flower, 
The  lark  from  the  sky,  or  the  worm  from 

the  grave, 
As  in  weaning  the  Sea-Child  from  the  wave. 


BABY   MAY 

CHEEKS  as  soft  as  July  peaches, 
Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness  —  round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise, 
Minutes  fill'd  with  shadeless  gladness, 
Minutes  just  as  brimm'd  with  sadness, 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 
Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes, 
Lights  and  shadows  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  Autumn  corn, 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion 
Making  every  limb  all  motion  — 
Catching  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms, 
Clutching  fingers  —  straightening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works, 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings, 
Mother's  ever  new  surprisings, 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under, 
Tiny  scorns  of  smil'd  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings, 


Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness,  that  we  prize  such  sinning, 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes, 
Pullings  off  of  all  that 's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table  ; 
Silences  —  small  meditations, 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations, 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  ; 
Slumbers  —  such  sweet  angel-seemings, 
That  we  'd  ever  have  such  dreamings, 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we  'd  always  have  thee  waking  ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure, 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 
Joy  in  care  —  delight  in  sadness, 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness, 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be  — 
That 's  May  Bennett,  that 's  my  baby. 


BENNETT— LAING 


79 


BE   MINE,  AND   I   WILL  GIVE 
THY   NAME 

BE  mine,  and  I  will  give  thy  name 

To  Memory's  care, 
So  well,  that  it  shall  breathe,  with  fame, 

Immortal  air, 
That  time  and  change  and  death  shall 

be 
Scorn'd  by  the  life  I  give  to  thee. 

I  will  not,  like  the  sculptor,  trust 

Thy  shape  to  stone  ; 
That,  years  shall  crumble  into  dust, 

Its  form  unknown  ; 
No  —  the  white  statue's  life  shall  be 
Short,  to  the  life  I  '11  give  to  thee. 

Not  to  the  canvas  worms  may  fret 

Thy  charms  I  '11  give  ; 
Soon  shall  the  world  those  charms  for 
get, 

If  there  they  live  ; 
The  life  that  colors  lend  shall  be 
Poor  to  the  life  I'll  give  to  thee. 


For  t  IK  in  shalt  live,  defying  time 

And  mocking  death, 
In  music  on  —  O  life  sublime  I  — 

A  nation's  breath  ; 
Love,  in  a  people's  songs,  shall  be 
The  eternal  life  I  '11  give  to  thee. 

A  CHRISTMAS   SONG 

BLOW,  wind,  blow, 
Sing  through  yard  and  shroud  ; 
Pipe  it  shrilly  and  loud, 

Aloft  as  well  as  below  ; 
Sing  in  my  sailor's  ear 
The  song  I  sing  to  you, 
"  Come  home,  my  sailor  trne, 
For  Christmas  that  corned  so  near. " 

Go,  wind,  go, 

Hurry  his  home-bound  sail, 
Through  gusts  that  are  edged  with  hail, 

Through  winter,  and  sleet,  and  snow  ; 
Song,  in  my  sailor's  ear, 
Your  shrilling  and  moans  shall  be, 
For  he  knows  they  sing  him  to  me 
And  Christmas  that  comes  so  near. 


SONGS   AND   BALLADRY  OF   SCOTLAND 
(See  also:  AYTOUN,  J.  W.  CARLYLE,  MACAULAY,  NICOLL,  SCOTT) 


MY  AIN   WIFE 

I  WADNA  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see  ; 
I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see  ; 
A  bonnier  yet  I  've  never  seen, 

A  better  canna  be  — 
1  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see  ! 

0  couthie  is  my  ingle-cheek, 
An'  cheerie  is  my  Jean  ; 


flatus 

I  never  see  her  angrv  look, 
Nor  hear  her  word  on  ane. 

She 's  gude  wi'  a'  the  neebours  roan' 
An'  aye  gude  wi'  me  — 

I  wadna  gTe  my  ain  wife 
For  ony  wife  I  see. 

An*  O  her  looks  sae  kindlie. 

They  melt  my  heart  outright, 
When  o'er  the  baby  at  her  breast 

She  hangs  wi'  fond  delight ; 
She  looks  intill  its  bonnie  face, 

An'  syne  looks  to  me  — 
I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

tfor  ony  wife  I  see. 


So 


SONGS  AND  BALLADRY  OF  SCOTLAND 


THE  SOWER'S  SONG 

Now  hands  to  seed-sheet,  boys  ! 

We  step  and  we  cast;  old  Time  's  on  wing; 
And  would  ye  partake  of  Harvest's  joys, 
The  corn  must  be  sown  in  spring. 
Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Old  earth  is  a  pleasure  to  see 

In  sunshiny  cloak  of  red  and  green; 
The  furrow  lies  fresh,  this  year  will  be 
As  years  that  are  past  have  been. 
Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Old  earth,  receive  this  corn, 

The  son  of  six  thousand  golden  sires; 
All  these  on  thy  kindly  breast  were  born; 
One  more  thy  poor  child  requires. 
Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Now  steady  and  sure  again, 

And  measure  of  stroke  and  step  we  keep; 
Thus  up  and  down  we  cast  our  grain; 
Sow  well  and  you  gladly  reap. 

Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed ; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 


ADIEU 

LET  time  and  chance  combine,  combine, 
Let  time  and  chance  combine; 

The  fairest  love  from  heaven  above, 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine, 

My  dear, 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine. 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone,  and  gone, 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone; 
If  naught  but  pain  to  me  remain, 

I  '11  fare  in  memory  on, 
My  dear, 

I  '11  fare  in  memory  on. 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall,  must  fall, 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall; 
In  weal  or  woe,  in  this  world  below, 

I  love  you  ever  and  all, 
My  dear, 

I  love  you  ever  and  all. 

A  long  road  full  of  pain,  of  pain, 

A  long  road  full  of  pain; 
One     soul,    one     heart,    sworn     ne'er    to 

part,— 
We  ne'er  can  meet  again, 

My  dear, 
We  ne'er  can  meet  again. 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow,  allow, 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow; 
We  blessed  were  as  the  angels  are,  — 

Adieu  forever  now, 
My  dear, 

Adieu  forever  now. 


fcofiert  4WlfiHan 


'T   IS   SAIR  TO   DREAM 

'T  is  sair  to  dream  o'  them  we  like, 
That  waking  we  sail  never  see ; 

Yet,  oh  !  how  kindly  was  the  smile 
My  laddie  in  my  sleep  gave  me  ! 

I  thought  we  sat  beside  the  burn 

That  wimples  down  the  flowery  glen, 


Where,  in  our  early  days  o'  love, 
We  met  that  ne'er  sail  meet  again  ! 

The  simmer  sun  sank  'neath  the  wave, 
And  gladden'd,  wi'  his  parting  ray, 

The  woodland  wild  and  valley  green, 
Fast  fading  into  gloamin'  grey. 

He  talk'd  of  days  o'  future  joy, 
And  yet  my  heart  was  haflins  sair. 


GILFILLAN  — MOIR 


81 


For  when  his  eye  it  beam'd  on  me, 

A  withering  death-like  glance  was  there  ! 

I  thought  him  dead,  and  then  I  thought 

That  life  was  young  and  love  was  free, 
For  o'er  our  heads  the  mavis  sang, 

And  hameward  hied  the  janty  bee  ! 
We  pledged  our  love  and  plighted  troth, 

But  cauld,  cauld  was  the  kiss  he  gave, 
When  starting  from  my  dream,  I  found 

His  troth  was  plighted  to  the  grave  ! 

I  canna  weep,  for  hope  is  fled, 

And  nought  would  do  but  silent  mourn, 
Were  't  no  for  dreams  that  should  na  come, 

To  whisper  back  my  love's  return  ; 
'T  is  sair  to  dream  o'  them  we  like, 

That  waking  we  sail  never  see; 
Yet,  oh  !  how  kindly  was  the  smile 

My  laddie  in  my  sleep  gave  me  ! 

THE   EXILE'S   SONG 

OH  !  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 

Why  did  I  cross  the  deep  ? 
Oh  !  why  left  I  the  land 

Where  my  forefathers  sleep  ? 
I  sigh  for  Scotia's  shore, 

And  I  gaze  across  the  sea, 


But  I  canna  get  a  blink 
O'  my  aiu  eouutrie. 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high, 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs; 
And,  to  the  Indian  maid, 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 
But  I  diuna  see  the  broom 

Wi'  its  tassels  on  the  lee, 
Nor  hear  the  lintie's  sang 

O'  my  a  in  countrie. 

Oh  !  here  no  Sabbath  bell 

Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 

Amang  the  yellow  corn  : 
For  the  tyrant's  voice  is  here, 

And  the  wail  of  slaverie; 
But  the  sun  of  freedom  shines 

In  my  ain  countrie. 

There  's  a  hope  for  every  woe, 

And  a  balm  for  every  pain, 
But  the  first  joys  o'  our  heart 

Come  never  back  again. 
There  's  a  track  upon  the  deep, 

And  a  path  across  the  sea; 
But  the  weary  ne'er  return 

To  their  ain  countrie. 


Datofc  a$acbctl) 


CASA'S   DIRGE 

VAINLY  for  us  the  sunbeams  shine, 

Dimm'd  is  our  joyous  hearth; 
O  Casa,  dearer  dust  than  thine 

Ne'er  mix'd  with  mother  earth  ! 
Thou  wert  the  corner-stone  of  love, 

The  keystone  of  our  fate ; 
Thou  art  not  !     Heaven  scowls  dark  above, 

And  earth  is  desolate. 

Ocean  may  rave  with  billows  curl'd, 

And  moons  may  wax  and  wane, 
And  fresh  flowers  blossom ;  but  this  world 

Shall  claim  not  thee  again. 
Clos'd  are  the  eyes  which  bade  rejoice 

Our  hearts  till  love  ran  o'er; 
Thy  smile  is  vanish'd,  and  thy  voice 

Silent  for  evermore. 


Yes  ;  thou  art  gone  —  our  hearth's  de 
light, 

Our  boy  so  fond  and  dear; 
No  more  thy  smiles  to  glad  our  sight, 

No  more  thy  songs  to  cheer; 
No  more  thy  presence,  like  the  sun, 

To  fill  our  home  with  joy: 
Like  lightning  hath  thy  race  been  rnn, 

As  bright  as  swift,  fair  boy. 

Now  winter  with  its  snow  departs, 

The  green  leaves  clothe  the  tree; 
But  summer  smiles  not  on  the  hearts 

That  bleed  and  break  for  thee: 
The  young   May   weaves    her    flowery 
crown. 

Her  boughs  in  beauty  wave; 
They  only  shake  their  blossoms  down 

Upon  thy  silent  grave. 


82 


SONGS  AND  BALLADRY  OF  SCOTLAND 


Dear  to  our  souls  is  every  spot 

Where  thy  small  feet  have  trod; 
There  odors,  breath'd  from  Eden,  float, 

And  sainted  is  the  sod; 
The  wild  bee  with  its  buglet  fine, 

The  blackbird  singing  free, 
Melt  both  thy  mother's  heart  and  mine: 

They  speak  to  us  of  thee  ! 

Only  in  dreams  thou  comest  now 

From  Heaven's  immortal  shore, 
A  glory  round  that  infant  brow, 

Which  Death's  pale  signet  bore: 
'T  was  thy  fond  looks,  't  was  thy  fond  lips, 

That  lent  our  joys  their  tone ; 
And  life  is  shaded  with  eclipse, 

Since  thou  from  earth  art  gone. 

Thine  were  the  fond,  endearing  ways, 

That  tenderest  feeling  prove ; 
A  thousand  wiles  to  win  our  praise, 

To  claim  and  keep  our  love; 
Fondness  for  us  thrill'd  all  thy  veins; 

And,  Casa,  can  it  be 
That  nought  of  all  the  past  remains 

Except  vain  tears  for  thee  ? 

Idly  we  watch  thy  form  to  trace 

In  children  on  the  street; 
Vainly,  in  each  familiar  place, 

We  list  thy  pattering  feet; 
Then,  sudden,  o'er  these  fancies  crush'd, 

Despair's  black  pinions  wave; 
We  know  that  sound  for  ever  hush'd: 

We  look  upon  thy  grave. 


O  heavenly  child  of  mortal  birth  ! 

Our  thoughts  of  thee  arise, 
Not  as  a  denizen  of  earth, 

But  inmate  of  the  skies: 
To  feel  that  life  renew'd  is  thine 

A  soothing  balm  imparts; 
We  quaff  from  out  Faith's  cup  divine, 

And  Sabbath  fills  our  hearts. 

Thou  leanest  where  the  fadeless  wands 

Of  amaranth  bend  o'er; 
Thy  white  wings  brush  the  golden  sands 

Of  Heaven's  refulgent  shore. 
Thy  home  is  where  the  psalm  and  song 

Of  angels  choir  abroad, 
And  blessed  spirits,  all  day  long, 

Bask  round  the  throne  of  God. 

There  chance  and  change  are  not;  the  soul 

Quaffs  bliss  as  from  a  sea, 
And  years,  through  endless  ages,  roll, 

From  sin  and  sorrow  free: 
There  gush  for  aye  fresh  founts  of  joy, 

New  raptures  to  impart; 
Oh  !  dare  we  call  thee  still  our  boy, 

Who  now  a  seraph  art  ? 

A  little  while  —  a  little  while  — 

Ah  !  long  it  cannot  be  ! 
And  thou  again  on  us  wilt  smile, 

Where  angels  smile  on  thee. 
How  selfish  is  the  worldly  heart: 

How  sinful  to  deplore  ! 
Oh  !  that  we  were  where  now  thou  art, 

Not  lost,  but  gone  before. 


THE   MITHERLESS   BAIRN 

WHEN  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hush'd  to  their 

hame, 

By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  grand-dame, 
Wha  stands  last  an'  lanely,  an'  sairly  for- 

f  aim  ? 
'T  is  the  puir  dowie  laddie  —  the  mitherless 

bairn  ! 

The  mitherless  bairnie  creeps  to  his  lane 

bed; 
Nane  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare 

head; 


His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  aim, 
An'  lithless  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow,  siccan  dreams  hover 

there, 
O'  hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kaim  his  dark 

hair! 
But  mornin'  brings  clutches,  a'  reckless  an' 

stern, 
That  lo'e  na  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 


The  sister,  wha  sang  o'er  his  saftly  rock'd 

bed, 
Now  rests  in  the  niools  whare  their  mammi 

is  laid; 


' 


THOM  —  AIRD  —  BALLANTINE 


While  the  father  toils  sair  his  wee  bannock 

to  earn, 
An'  kens  na  the  wrangs  o'  his  mitherless 

bairn. 

Her  spirit  that  pass'd  in  yon  hour  of  his 

birth 
Still  watches  his  lone  lorn  waud'rings  on 

earth, 
Recording   in   heaven   the   blessings    they 

earn 


Wha    couthilie    deal    wi*    the    raitherlea* 
bairn  i 

Oh  !  speak  him  na  harshly  —  he  trembles 

the  while, 
He  bends  to  your  biddiu',  and  blesses  your 

smile: 
In  the  dark  hour  o'  anguish,  the  heartless 

shall  learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless 

bairn ! 


Ctjomag  3Ur& 


THE   SWALLOW 


THE   swallow,  bonny  birdie,  comes   sharp 

twittering  o'er  the  sea, 
And  gladly  is  her  carol  heard  for  the  sunny 

days  to  be ; 
She  shares  not  with  us  wintry  glooms,  but 

yet,  no  faithless  thing, 
She  hunts  the  summer  o'er  the  earth  with 

wearied  little  wing. 

The  lambs  like  snow  all  nibbling  go  upon 
the  ferny  hills; 

Light  winds  are  in  the  leafy  woods,  and 
birds,  and  bubbling  rills ; 

Then  welcome,  little  swallow,  by  our  morn 
ing  lattice  heard, 

Because  thou  com'st  when  Nature  bids 
bright  days  be  thy  reward  ! 

Thine  be  sweet  mornings  with  the  bee 
that 's  out  for  honey-dew; 


And  glowing  be  the  noontide  for  the  grass- 

hopper  and  you; 
And  mellow  shine,  o'er  day's  decline,  the 

sun  to  light  thee  home: 
What  can  molest  thy  airy  nest  ?  sleep  till 

the  day-spring  come  ! 

The  river  blue  that  rushes  through  the  val 
ley  hears  thee  sing, 

And  murmurs  much  beneath  the  touch  of 
thy  light-dipping  wing. 

The  thunder -cloud,  over  us  bowed,  in 
deeper  gloom  is  seen, 

When  quick  reliev'd  it  glances  to  thy 
bosom's  silvery  sheen. 

The  silent  Power,  that  brought  thee  back 

with  leading-strings  of  love 
To  haunts  where  first  the  summer  sun  fell 

on  thee  from  above, 
Shall  bind  thee  more  to  come  aye  to  the 

music  of  our  leaves, 
For  here  thy  young,  where  thou  hast  sprung, 

shall  glad  thee  in  our  eaves. 


MUCKLE-MOU'D   MEG 


2£>alfantine 


1  OH,  wha  hae  ye  brought  us  hame  now,  my 

brave  lord, 

Strappit  flaught  ower  his  braid  saddle 
bow? 


Some  bauld  Border  reiver  to  feast  at  our 
board, 

An'  herry  our  pantry,  I  trow. 
He  's  buirdly  an'  stalwart  in  lith  an'  in  limb; 

Gin  ye  were  his  master  in  war 
The  field  was  a  saft  enough  litter  for  him, 

Ye  needna  hae  brought  him  sae  far. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADRY  OF  SCOTLAND 


Then  saddle  an'  munt  again,  harness  an' 

dunt  again, 

i'  when  ye  gae  hunt  again,  strike  higher 
game." 

"  Hoot,  whisht  ye,  my  dame,  for  he  comes 

o'  gude  kin, 

An'  boasts  o'  a  lang  pedigree  ; 
This  night  he  maun  share  o'  our  gude  cheer 

within, 

At  morning's  grey  dawn  he  maun  dee. 
He 's   gallant   Wat    Scott,   heir   o'   proud 

Harden  Ha', 

Wha  ettled  our  lands  clear  to  sweep  ; 
But  now  he  is  snug  in  auld  Elibaiik's  paw, 

An'  shall  swing  frae  our  donjon-keep. 
Tho'  saddle  an'  munt   again,  harness  an' 

dunt  again, 

I  '11  ne'er  when  I  hunt  again  strike  higher 
game." 

"  Is  this  young  Wat  Scott  ?  an'  wad  ye  rax 

his  craig, 

When  our  daughter  is  fey  for  a  man  ? 
Gae,   gaur   the   loun   marry   our  muckle- 

mou'd  Meg, 

Or  we  '11  ne'er  get  the  jaud  aff  our  han' !  " 
"  Od  !  hear  our  gudewife,  she  wad  fain  save 

your  life  ; 

Wat  Scott,  will  ye  marry  or  hang  ?  " 
But  Meg's  muckle  mou  set  young  Wat's 

heart  agrue, 

Wha  swore  to  the  woodie  he  'd  gang. 
Ne'er  saddle  nor  munt  again,  harness  nor 
dunt  again, 


An 


Wat  ne'er  shall  hunt  again,  ne'er  see  his 
hame. 

Syne  muckle-mou'd  Meg  press'd  in  close  to 

his  side, 

An'  blinkit  fu'  sleely  and  kind, 
But  aye  as  Wat  glower'd  at  his  braw  prof- 

fer'd  bride, 

He  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 

"  A  bride  or  a  gallows,  a  rope  or  a  wife  ! " 

The  morning  dawn'd  sunny  and  clear  — 

Wat  boldly  strode  forward  to  part  wi'  his 

life, 

Till  he  saw  Meggy  shedding  a  tear  ; 
Then  saddle  an'  munt  again,  harness  an* 

dunt  again, 
Fain  wad  Wat  hunt  again,  fain  wad  be  hame. 

Meg's  tear  touch'd  his  bosom,  the  gibbet 

frown'd  high, 

An'  slowly  Wat  strode  to  his  doom  ; 
He   gae  a  glance  round  wi'  a  tear  in  his 

eye, 

Meg  shone  like  a  star  through  the  gloom. 
She  rush'd  to  his  arms,  they  were  wed  on 

the  spot, 

An'  lo'ed  ither  muckle  and  lang  ; 
Nae  bauld  border  laird  had  a  wife  like  Wat 

Scott ; 

'T  was  better  to  marry  than  hang. 
So  saddle  an'  munt  again,  harness  an'  dunt 

again, 
Elibank  hunt  again,  Wat 's  snug  at  hame. 

(Compare  R.  BROWNING,  p.  364.} 


MY   BATH 

(Scene  —  Kinnaird  Burn,  near  Pitlochrie.) 

COME  here,  good  people  great  and  small, 

that  wander  far  abroad, 
To    drink  of   drumly   German  wells,  and 

make  a  weary  road 
To  Baden  and  to  Wiesbaden,  and  how  they 

all  are  nam'd, 
To  Carlsbad  and  to  Kissingen,  for  healing 

virtue  fam'd  ; 
Come  stay  at  home,  and  keep  your  feet  from 

dusty  travel  free, 


And  I  will  show  you  what  rare  bath  a  good 
God  gave  to  me  ; 

'T  is  hid  among  the  Highland  hills  beneath 
the  purple  brae, 

With  cooling  freshness  free  to  all,  nor  doc 
tor's  fee  to  pay. 

No  craft  of  mason  made  it  here,  nor  carpen 
ter,  I  wot ; 

Nor  tinkering  fool  with  hammering  tool  to 
shape  the  charmed  spot  ; 

But  down  the  rocky-breasted  glen  the  foamy 
torrent  falls 

Into  the  amber  caldron  deep,  fenced  round 
with  granite  walls. 


JOHN   STUART  BLACKIE 


Nor  gilded  beam,  nor  pictur'd  dome,  nor 

curtain,  roofs  it  in, 
But  the  blue  sky  rests,  and  white    clouds 

float,  above  the  bubbling  linn, 
Where  God's  own  hand  hath  scoop'd  it  out 

in  Nature's  Titan  hall, 
And  from  her  cloud-fed  fountains  drew  its 

waters  free  to  all. 

Oh  come  and  see  my  Highland  bath,  and 

prove  its  freshening  flood, 
And  spare  to  taint  your  skin  with  swathes 

of  druinly  German  mud  : 
Come  plunge  with  me  into  the  wave  like 

liquid  topaz  fair, 
And  to  the  waters   give   your   back   that 

spout  down  bravely  there  ; 
Then  float  upon  the  swirling  flood,  and,  like 

a  glancing  trout, 
Plash  about,  and  dash  about,  and  make  a 

lively  rout, 
And  to  the  gracious  sun  display  the  glory 

of  your  skin, 
As  you  dash  about  and  splash  about  in  the 

foamy-bubbling  linn. 

Oh  come  and   prove  my  bonnie  bath  ;   in 

sooth  't  is  furnish'd  well 
With  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  spreading  ferns, 

all  in  the  rocky  dell, 
And  roses  hanging  from  the  cliff  in  grace 

of  white  and  red, 

And  little  tiny  birches  nodding  lightly  over 
head, 
And  spiry  larch  with  purple  cones,  and  tips 

of  virgin  green, 
And  leafy  shade  of  hazel  copse  with  sunny 

glints  between  : 
Oh  might  the  Roman  wight  be  here  who 

praised  Bandusia's  well, 
He  'd  find  a  bath  to  Nymphs  more  dear  in 

my  sweet  Highland  dell. 

Some  folks  will  pile  proud  palaces,  and 
some  will  wander  far 

To  scan  the  blinding  of  a  sun,  or  the  blink 
ing  of  a  star  ; 

Some  sweat  through  Afric's  burning  sands  ; 
and  some  will  vex  their  soul 

To  find  heaven  knows  what  frosty  prize  be 
neath  the  Arctic  pole. 

God  bless  them  all  ;  and  may  they  find  what 
thing  delights  them  well 

In  east  or  west,  or  north  or  south,  —  but  I 
at  home  will  dwell 


Where  fragrant  ferns  their  fronds  uncurl, 
and  healthful  breeze*  play, 

And  clear  brown  waters  grandly  swirl  be 
neath  the  purple  brae. 

Oh  come  and  prove  my  Highland  bath,  the 

burn,  and  all  the  glen, 
Hard-toiling  wights   in  dingy  nooks,  and 

scribes  with  inky  pen, 
Strange  thoughtful  men  with  curious  quests 

that  vex  your  fretful  brains, 
And   scheming  sons  of  trade  who  fear  to 

count  your  slippery  gains  ; 
Come  wander  up  the   burn  with  me,  and 

thread  the  winding  glen, 
And  breathe  the  healthful  power  that  flows 

down  from  the  breezy  Ben, 
And  plunge  you  in  the  deep  brown  pool ; 

and  from  beneath  the  spray 
You'll  come  forth  like  a  flower  that  blooms 

'neath  freshening  showers  in  May  ! 


THE    EMIGRANT   LASSIE 

As  I  came  wandering  down  Glen  Spean, 
Where  the  braes  are  green  and  grassy, 

With  my  light  step  I  overtook 
A  weary-footed  lassie. 

She  had  one  bundle  on  her  back, 

Another  in  her  hand, 
And  she  walk'd  as  one  who  was  full  loath 

To  travel  from  the  land. 

Quoth  I,  "  My  bonnie  lass  ! "  —  for  she 

Had  hair  of  flowing  gold, 
And  dark  brown  eyes,  and  dainty  limbs, 

Right  pleasant  to  behold  — 

"  My  bonnie  lass,  what  aileth  thee, 

On  this  bright  summer  day, 
To  travel  sad  and  shoeless  thus 

Upon  the  stony  way  ? 

"  I  'm  fresh  and  strong,  and  stoutly  shod, 

And  thou  art  burden'd  so  ; 
March  lightly  now,  and  let  me  bear 

The  bundles  as  we  go." 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  said,  "  that  may  not  be  ; 

What 's  mine  is  mine  to  bear  ; 
Of  good  or  ill,  as  God  may  will, 

I  take  my  portion'd  share." 


86 


SONGS   AND   BALLADRY   OF   SCOTLAND 


"  But  you  have  two,  and  I  have  none  j 

One  burden  give  to  me  ; 
I  '11  take  that  bundle  from  thy  back 

That  heavier  seems  to  be." 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  said  ;  "  this,  if  you  will, 
That  holds  —  no  hand  but  mine 

May  bear  its  weight  from  dear  Gleu  Spean 
'Cross  the  Atlantic  brine  !  " 

«  Well,  well !  but  tell  me  what  may  be 

Within  that  precious  load, 
Which  thou  dost  bear  with  such  fine  care 

Along  the  dusty  road  ? 

"  Belike  it  is  some  present  rare 

Rrom  friend  in  parting  hour  ; 
Perhaps,  as  prudent  maidens  wont, 

Thou  tak'st  with  thee  thy  dower." 

She  droop 'd  her  head,  and  with  her  hand 

She  gave  a  mournful  wave  : 
"  Oh,  do  not  jest,  dear  sir  !  —  it  is 

Turf  from  my  mother's  grave  !  " 

I  spoke  no  word  :  we  sat  and  wept 

By  the  road-side  together  ; 
No  purer  dew  on  that  bright  day 

Was  dropp'd  upon  the  heather. 

THE   WORKING   MAN'S    SONG 

I  AM  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No  bowing,  scraping  thing  ! 
I  bear  my  head  more  free  and  high 

Than  titled  count  or  king. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 

And  only  to  one  Lord  on  high 
My  head  I  bow. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 
No  vain  and  varnish'd  thing  ! 


And  from  my  heart}  without  a  die, 

My  honest  thoughts  I  fling. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 
Our  stout  John  Knox  was  none  —  and  why 

Should  I  be  so  ? 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No  mincing,  modish  thing, 
In  gay  saloon  a  butterfly, 

Some  wax-doll  Miss  to  wing. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 

No  moth,  to  sport  in  fashion's  eye, 
A  Bond  Street  beau. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No  bully,  braggart  thing, 
With  jockeys  on  the  course  to  vie, 

With  bull-dogs  in  the  ring. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 

The  working  man  might  sooner  die 
Than  sink  so  low. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 
No  star-bedizen'd  thing  ! 
My  fathers  filch'd  no  dignity, 

By  fawning  to  a  king. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 

And  to  the  wage  of  honesty 
My  rank  I  owe. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No  bowing,  scraping  thing  ! 
I  bear  my  head  more  free  and  high 

Than  titled  count  or  king. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 

And  thank  the  blessed  God  on  high, 
Who  made  me  so  1 


WILLIE   WINKIE 

WEE  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town, 
Up  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  nicht-gown, 
Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 
u  Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ?  —  for  it  's 
now  ten  o'clock.'* 


Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  are  ye  comin'  ben  ? 
The  cat 's  singin'  gay  thrums  to  the  sleepin' 

hen, 
The  doug  's  spelder'd  on  the  floor,  and  disna 

gie  a  cheep  ; 
But  here  's  a  waukrife  laddie,  that  winna 

fa'  asleep. 


MILLER— MACKAY 


Ony  thing  but  sleep,  ye  rogue  !  —  glow'rin' 
like  the  moon, 

Rattlin'  in  an  aim  jug  wi'  an  aim  spoon, 

Runiblin',  tuinblin'  roun' about,  era  win'  like 
a  cock, 

Skirlin'  like  a  keuna-what  — wauknin'  sleep- 
in'  folk  ! 


Hey,  Willie  Winkle  !    the    wean  '•   in   a 

creel  J 
Waumblin'  aff  a  bodie's  knee  like  a  vera 

eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  lug,  and  ravellin'  a* 

her  thrums  : 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie !— See,  there  be  comet! 


TELL   ME,  YE  WINGED  WINDS 

TELL  me,  ye  winged  winds, 

That  round  my  pathway  roar, 
Do  ye  not  know  some  spot 

Where  mortals  weep  no  more  ? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell, 

Some  valley  in  the  west, 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain, 

The  weary  soul  may  rest  ? 
loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
sigh'd  for  pity  as  it  answer'd,  "  No." 

Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep, 

Whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Knowst  thou  some  favor'd  spot, 

Some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find 

The  bliss  for  which  he  sighs, 
Where  sorrow  never  lives, 

And  friendship  never  dies  ? 
loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual  flow, 
>pp'd  for  a  while,  and  sigh'd  to  answer, 
"  No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon, 

That,  with  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth 

Asleep  in  night's  embrace ; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round 

Hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  man 

May  find  a  happier  lot  ? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe, 
And  a  voice,  sweet   but  sad,  responded, 
"  No." 

Tell  me,  my  secret  soul, 

Oh  !  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 

Is  there  no  resting-place 

From  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? 


Is  there  no  happy  spot 

Where  mortals  may  be  blest, 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 

And  weariness  a  rest  ? 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals 

given, 

Wav'd  their  bright  wings,  and  whisper'dl 
"  Yes,  in  heaven." 


EARL  NORMAN  AND  JOHN 
TRUMAN 

THROUGH  great  Earl  Norman's  acres  wide, 

A  prosperous  and  a  good  land, 
'T  will  take  you  fifty  miles  to  ride 

O'er  grass,  and  corn,  and  woodland. 
His  age  is  sixty-nine,  or  near, 

And  I  'm  scarce  twenty-two,  man, 
And  have  but  fifty  pounds  a  year,  — 

Poor  John  Truman  ! 
But  would  I  change  ?     I'  faith  !  not  I, 

Oh  no  I  not  I,  says  Truman  1 

Earl  Norman  dwells  in  halls  of  state, 

The  grandest  in  the  county  ; 
Has  forty  cousins  at  his  gate, 

To  feed  upon  his  bounty. 
But  then  he  *s  deaf  —  the  doctors'  care, 

While  I  in  whispers  woo,  man, 
And  find  my  physic  in  the  air,  — 

Stout  John  Truman ! 
D  'ye  think  I  'd  change  for  thrice  his  gold  ? 

Oh  no  1  not  I,  says  Truman  1 

Earl  Norman  boasts  a  gartered  knee, 

A  proof  of  royal  graces  ; 
I  wear,  by  Nelly  wrought  for  me, 

A  silken  pair  of  braces. 
He  sports  a  star  upon  his  breast, 

And  I  a  violet  blue,  man,  — 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


The  gift  of  her  who  loves  me  best, 

Proud  John  Truman  ! 
I  'd  he  myself,  and  not  the  Earl, 

Oh,  that  would  I,  says  Truman. 

WHAT   MIGHT   BE   DONE 

WHAT  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise  — 
What     glorious     deeds,     my     suffering 

brother, 

Would  they  unite 
In  love  and  right, 
And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another  ? 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 
With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness, 
And  knowledge  pour, 
From  shore  to  shore, 
Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 


All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs, 
All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together  ; 

And  wine  and  corn, 

To  each  man  born, 
Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow, 

Might  stand  erect 

In  self-respect, 
And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 

What   might    be   done  ?     This   might   be 

done, 
And    more    than    this,     my    suffering 

brother  — 

More  than  the  tongue 
E'er  said  or  sung1, 
If  men  were  wise  and  lov'd  each  other. 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 

INCLUDING  THE  POETS  OF  YOUNG  IRELAND 

(See  also:  DEVERE,  MAGINN,  MAHONY,  SIMMONS) 


&mtuicl  Stobcr 


RORY   O'MORE;  OR,   GOOD 
OMENS 

YOUNG   Rory   O'More   courted    Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  —  she  as  soft  as 

the  dawn  ; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to 

please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that 

was  to  tease. 
"Now,   Rory,   be   aisy,"   sweet    Kathleen 

would  cry 
(Reproof  on   her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her 

eye), 
"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth, 

what  I  'm  about, 
Faith  you've  teas'd   till  I've  put  on  my 

cloak  inside  out." 
"Oh  !  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the 

way 


You  've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a 

day; 
And  't  is  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not  to 

be  sure  ? 
For  't  is  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory 

O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think 

of  the  like, 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering 

Mike  ; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I  '11  be 

bound." 
"  Faith,"  says  Rory,  « I  'd  rather  love  you 

than  the  ground." 

"  Now,  Rory,  I  '11  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go  ; 
Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I  'm  hating 

you  so  !  " 

"Oh,"  says    Rory,  "that   same  I  'm    de 
lighted  to  hear, 
For  drames  always  go  by  conthrairies,  my 

dear  ; 


SAMUEL  LOVER 


89 


Oh  !  jewel,  keep  draining   that  same   till 

you  die, 
bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night 

the  black  lie  ! 

't  is  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to 
be  sure  ? 

'tis   all   for  good  luck,"  says  bold 
Rory  O'More. 

'Arrah,    Kathleen,    my    darlint,    you've 
teas'd  me  enough, 

I  've  thrash'd  for  your  sake  Dinny 
Grimes  and  Jim  Duff  ; 
I've    made    myself,    drinking   your 
health,  quite  a  baste, 
I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the 

praste." 
;n  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round 

her  neck, 
soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or 

speck, 

he  look'd  in  her  eyes  that  were  beam 
ing  with  light, 
Lnd  he  kiss'd  her  sweet  lips  ;  —  don't  you 

think  he  was  right  ? 
Now  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  ;  you  '11  hug  me 

no  more, 
it 's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kiss'd 

me  before." 
'Then  here  goes  another,"   says  he,  "to 

make  sure, 

there  's  luck   in  odd   numbers,"  says 
Rory  O'More. 


WIDOW   MACHREE 

riDOW  Machree,  it 's  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
lith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty 

black  gown, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
How  alter'd  your  air, 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear  — 
' T  is  destroying  your  hair 

Which  should  be  flowing  free  ; 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree  I 

Widow  Machree,  now  the  summer  is  come, 
Och  hone  !  WTidow  Machree, 


When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty 
look  glum  ? 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machrec. 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares  — 
Why  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree  ; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 

Widow  Machree,  and  when  winter 


Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree, 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Full  of  family  glee  ; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit,  you  sup, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts 

I  've  towld, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree, 
But  you  're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in 

the  cowld  ? 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
With  such  sins  on  your  head 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled, 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 
Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying,    "  Och    hone  !     Widow    Ma 
chree  "  ? 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Ma 
chree, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
And  with  my  advice,  faith  I  wish  you'd 
take  me, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
You  'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  sit  by  the  fire, 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart, 
When  you  'd  me  near  your  heart, 

Och  hone  I     Widow  Machree. 


9° 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


1   SOGGARTH  AROON 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 
Soggarth  aroon  ? l 

Since  you  did  show  the  way, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 

While  they  would  work  with  me 
Old  Ireland's  slavery,  - 
Soggarth  aroon. 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 
Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  not  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you  — 
Och  !  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroou, 


Came  to  my  cabin-door, 
And  on  my  earthen-floor 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 
Soggarth  aroou  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon. 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ; 
And  when  my  hearth  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Och  !  you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 

Our  love  they  '11  never  shake, 

When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake 

We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 


A  PLACE   IN   THY   MEMORY 

A  PLACE  in  thy  memory,  Dearest ! 

Is  all  that  I  claim  : 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  nearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer  ; 

Another  may  win  and  wear; 
I  care  not  though  he  be  dearer, 

If  I  am  remember'd  there. 

»  Sdgart  ar&n 


Remember  me,  not  as  a  lover 

Whose  hope  was  cross'd, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  light  it  hath  lost ! 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mothei 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see, 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

O  Dearest,  remember  me  1 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  Dearest  1 

Couldst  thou  smile  on  me, 
•  Priest,  dear. 


GRIFFIN  — MANGAN 


would  be  the  fondest  and  deairst 
That  ever  lov'd  thee  : 

a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming 
That  never  must  burst  upon  thine  ; 

heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming, 
Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

>mber  me  then  !     O  remember 
My  calm  light  love, 
jugh  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 
My  life  may  prove  ! 
hat  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet 
If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet 
And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 

NOCTURNE 

SLEEP  that  like  the  couched  dove 

Broods  o'er  the  weary  eye, 
Dreams  that  with  soft  heavings  move 

The  heart  of  memory, 
Labor's  guerdon,  golden  rest, 
Wrap  thee  in  its  downy  vest,  — 
Fall  like  comfort  on  thy  brain 
And  sing  the  hush  song  to  thy  pain  I 


Far  from  thee  be  startling  fears, 
And  dreams  the  guilty  dream  ; 
No  banshee  scare  thy  drowsy  ears 

With  her  ill-omeu'd  scream  ; 
But  tones  of  fairy  minstrelsy 
Float  like  the  ghosts  of  sound  o'er  thee, 
Soft  as  the  chapel's  distant  ln-11, 
And  lull  thee  to  a  sweet  farewell. 

Ye  for  whom  the  ashy  hearth 
The  fearful  housewife  clears, 

Ye  whose  tiny  sounds  of  mirth 
The  nighted  carman  hears, 

Ye  whose  pygmy  hammers  make 

The  wonderers  of  the  cottage  wake, 

Noiseless  be  your  airy  flight, 

Silent  as  the  still  moonlight. 

Silent  go,  and  harmless  come, 

Fairies  of  the  stream  : 
Ye,  who  love  the  winter  gloom 

Or  the  gay  moonbeam, 
Hither  bring  your  drowsy  store 
Gather'd  from  the  bright  lusmore  ; 
Shake  o'er  temples,  soft  and  deep, 
The  comfort  of  the  poor  man,  sleep. 


Clarence 


DARK   ROSALEEN 

0  MY  Dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 

ic  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There  's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green  ; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
Shall   glad   your   heart,  shall   give  you 

hope, 

Shall  give   you   health,   and   help,   and 
hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  hills,  and  through  dales, 
Have  I  roam'd  for  your  sake  ; 

All  yesterday  I  sail'd  with  sails 
On  river  and  on  lake. 


The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dash'd  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
O  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lighten'd  through  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move, 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  I 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

'T  is  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal  : 
Tour  holy,  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You  '11  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
You  '11    think    of   me    through   daylight's 

hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
O,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

O  !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  warp  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan  cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


SOUL   AND    COUNTRY 

ARISE,  my  slumbering  soul  !  arise, 
And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do  ! 

The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies  ; 
A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free, 

And  live  anew. 

The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born 
That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base  ; 
Immortal  Freedom's  thunder  horn 
As  yet  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 

To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul  !  and  see,  and  say 
If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here  : 
The  will  to  smite,  the  power  to  slay, 
Abound  in  every  heart  and  hand 

Afar,  anear  ; 

But,  God  !  must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 
Pierce  mind,  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year  ? 

O,  dream  it  not ! 

It  sounds  a  false,  blaspheming  word, 
Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear, 

And  ill-begot. 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  nought : 
To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 

And  works  of  love, 
A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought 
And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads, 

This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 
The  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 

Of  Washington  : 

Truth's  name  alone  shall  man  adore 
Long  as  the  waves  of  Time  shall  roll 

Henceforward  on. 

My  countrymen  !  my  words  are  weak  : 
My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark, 

My  heart  is  chill  ; 
Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 
To  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 

Beseech  your  God  !  and  bide  your  hour  I 
He  cannot,  will  not  long  be  dumb  : 

Even  now  his  tread 

Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  power  ; 
And  coming,  trust  me,  it  will  come,  — 

Else  were  He  dead. 


LADY   DUFFERIN  — CAROLINE   NORTON 


93 


£dina,  Sabp  SDufferin 


LAMENT    OF    THE    IRISH    EMI 
GRANT 

I  *M  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek  : 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here, 
t  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest  — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  ; 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends. 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  : 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And    my    arm's    young    strength    wu 

gone; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow  — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawiu'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore  — 
Oh  !  I  'in  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I  'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary  —  kind  and  true  ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  m  goin'  to  : 
They  say  there  's  bread    and  work  for 
all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there, 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springiu'  corn,  and  the  bright  M»J 
morn. 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


Caroline  €Iija6ert)  £araf> 

(LADY  STIRLING-MAXWELL) 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TO-r 
GETHER 

WE  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 
Since  first  l>eneath  the  chestnut-trees 

In  infancy  we  played. 


But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together  — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 


-  have  been  gay 

Ye  have  laugh'd  at  little  jests  ; 


94 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 
Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts. 

But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 
And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 

We  have  been  gay  together  — 
Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together, 

We  have  wept,  with  bitter  tears, 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slum- 
ber'd 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  sad  together  — 

Oh  !  what  shall  part  us  now  ? 

THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE 

WORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 

(Hurry  !) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pin'd  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would 
bring  ; 

(Oh  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and 
pearl ; 

And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying  ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed, 

(Hurry  !) 

Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need  ; 

(Oh  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank  ; 
Worn-out  chargers  stagger'd  and  sank  ; 
Bridles   were   slacken'd,  and   girths  were 

burst  ; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 

For  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one  ; 

(Hurry  !) 

They  have  fainted,  and  falter'd,  and  home 
ward  gone  ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying. 
The  king  look'd  back  at  that  faithful*  child  ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiFd  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering 

din, 
Then  he  dropp'd  ;  and  only  the  king  roc's  in 

Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dy  .ig  ! 


The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn  ; 

(Silence  !) 

No  answer  came  ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  return'd  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 
None  welcom'd  the  king  from  that  weary 

ride  ; 

For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day9 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearu'd   for  his  voice  while 
dying  ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 

The  king  return'd  from  her  chamber  of  rest. 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast  ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eyeing, 
The  tears  gush'd  forth  which  he  strove  to 

check  ; 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck  : 
"  O  steed  —  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  !  " 

LOVE   NOT 

LOVE  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 
Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly 

flowers  — 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  they  have  blossom 'd  for  a  few  short 

hours. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change  : 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 
The   kindly-beaming  eye   grow  cold  and 

strange, 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not  !  the  thing  you  love  may  die, 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome 

earth  ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, . 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 
Love  not  I 

Love  not  !  oh  warning  vainly  said 

In  present  hours  as  in  the  years  gone  by  ; 

Love  flings  a  halo  round   the  dear  ones' 

head, 

Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die 
Love  not  1 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


95 


frantic  WMct 


KITTY    NEIL 

"An,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from 'that 

wheel, 
Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from 

spinning  ; 

Come  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore- 
tree, 
Half  the  parish  is  there,  and  the  dance 

is  beginning. 

The  sun  is  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest- 
moon 
Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew- 

whiten'd  valley, 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving 

things 

Each   little   bird   sings   in   the  green 
shaded  alley." 

With  a  blush  and  a  smile  Kitty  rose  up  the 

while, 
Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her 

hair,  glancing  ; 
'T  is  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover 

sues, 
So  she  couldn't  but  choose   to — go 

off  to  the  dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are 

seen,  * 
Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of 

his  choosing  ; 
And   Pat,   without   fail,   leads   out    sweet 

Kitty  Neil,  — 

Somehow,  when   he   ask'd,  she  ne'er 
thought  of  refusing. 

Now,  Felix   Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his 

knee, 
And   with   flourish  so  free  sets   each 

couple  in  motion  ; 
With  a  cheer  and  a  bound,  the  lads  patter 

the  ground, 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans 

on  the  ocean  : 
Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose  —  feet  light  as 

the  doe's, 

Now   coyly   retiring,  now  boldly   ad 
vancing  — 


Search  the  world  all  round,  from  the  sky 

to  the  ground, 

No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an 
Irish  lass  dancing  ! 

Sweet  Kate  !  who  could  view  your  bright 

eyes  of  deep  blue, 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark 

lashes  so  mildly, 
Your    fair-turned    arm,    heaving    breast, 

rounded  form, 
Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses 

throb  wildly  j 

Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  de 
part, 
Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful 

yet  sweet  love  ; 
The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries  with  a 

sigh, 

"  Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under 
your  feet,  love  !  " 

A   SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG 

MELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  begin 
ning  ; 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spin 
ning  ; 
Bent  o'er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother, 

sitting, 
Is   croaning,  and   moaning,  and  drowsily 

knitting  : 

"  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." 
"'Tis   the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the 

glass  flapping." 

"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 
"  'T  is  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  sum 
mer  wind  dying." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 

foot 's  stirring  ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 
singing. 

"  What 's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  win 
dow,  I  wonder?" 

"  'T  is  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly- 
bush  under." 


96 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving 

your  stool  on, 
And  singing  all  wrong  that   old  song   of 

'TheCoolun?'" 
There  'a  a  form  at  the  casement  —  the  form 

of  her  true-love  — 
And   he  whispers,  with  face   bent,  "  I  'm 

waiting  for  you,  love  ; 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice 

step  lightly, 
We  '11  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon 's 

shining  brightly." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 

foot 's  stirring  ; 

Sprightly,    and    lightly,   and    airily  ring 
ing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 

singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays 
her  fingers, 


Steals  up  from  her  seat  —  longs  to  go,  and 

yet  lingers  ; 
A  frighten'd  glance  turns    to  her  drowsy 

grandmother, 
Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel 

with  the  other. 
Lazily,    easily,     swings     now    the    wheel 

round  ; 
Slowly  and  slowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's 

sound  ; 
Noiseless   and   light   to  the   lattice  above 

her 
The  maid  steps  —  then  leaps  to  the  arms 

of  her  lover. 
Slower  —  and    slower  —  and     slower     the 

wheel  swings  ; 
Lower  —  and  lower  —  and  lower  the  reel 

rings  ; 
Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stopp'd  their 

ringing  and  moving, 
Through  the   grove  the   young  lovers   by 

moonlight  are  roving. 


^Samuel 


THE   FAIRY   THORN 

AN   ULSTER   BALLAD 

"  GET  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary 

spinning  wheel  ; 
For  your  father 's  oh  the  hill,  and  your 

mother  is  asleep  ; 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we  '11  dance 

a  highland  reel 
Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door 't  was  thus  the  maid 
ens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the 

green  ; 
And  Anna  laid  the  sock  and  the  weary  wheel 

aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They  're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of 

the  quiet  eve, 
Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle 

bare  ; 
The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song 

they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air  ; 


And  linking  hand  in  hand,  and  singing  as 

they  go, 
The  maids  along  the  hill-side  have  ta'en 

their  fearless  way, 
Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan  trees  in 

lovely  beauty  grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  gray. 

The  hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall 

and  slim, 

Like  matron  with  her  twin  grand-daugh 
ters  at  her  knee  ; 
The  rowan  berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head 

gray  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them 

in  a  row, 
Between   each  lovely   couple   a  stately 

rowan  stem, 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy  like  skimming 

birds  they  go,  — 
Oh,  never  caroll'd  bird  like  them ! 

But   solemn  is  the  silence  of    the  silvery 

haze 

That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless 
repose, 


FERGUSON  —  DAVIS 


97 


And  dreamily  the  evening   has  still'd  the 

haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from 

the  sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across 

the  open  shaw, 
Are  hush'd  the  maidens'  voices,  as  cowering 

down  they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from   the   air   above   and  the  grassy 

ground  beneath, 
And  from  the  mountain-ashes  and  the  old 

white  thorn  between, 
A  power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through 

their  beings  breathe, 
And   they  sink   down   together   on   the 
green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and,  stealing  side 

by  side, 
They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their 

drooping  necks  so  fair, 
Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms 

to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasp'd  and  prostrate  all,  with  their 

heads  together  bow'd, 
Soft  o'er  their  bosoms  beating  —  the  only 

human  sound  — 
They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent 

fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air,  gliding  round. 

lor  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  prayer  can 
any  say, 


But  wild,  wild,  the  terror  of  the  speechleM 

three, 
For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently 

away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 

They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  part 
ing  locks  of  gold, 
And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  hold 

withdraws  ; 
They  feel    her    sliding    arms   from    their 

tranced  arms  unfold, 
But    they    dare    not    look    to  see    the 
cause  : 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchant 
ment  lies 
Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and 

perilous  amaze  ; 
And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their 

quivering  eyes, 

Or    their   limbs  from   the  cold  ground 
raise, 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  roll'd  her 

dewy  side, 
With     every    haunted     mountain     and 

streamy  vale  below  ; 
When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow 

morning-tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they 

may, 
And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious 

friends  in  vain  : 
They  pin'd  away  and  died  within  the  year 

and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 


vOsbornr  SDatoig 


THE   SACK   OF   BALTIMORE  * 

THE  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's 

hundred  isles, 
The  summer  sun  is  gleaming  still  through 

Gabriel's  rough  defiles  ; 
Old  Innisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like 

a  moulting  bird, 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean 

tide  is  heard  : 


The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach ;  the  children 
cease  their  play  ; 

The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn  ;  the  house 
holds  kneel  to  pray  ; 

And  full  of  love,  and  peace,  and.  rest,  iU 
daily  labor  o'er, 

Upon  that  cosy  creek  there  lay  the  town  of 
Baltimore. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  witk 
midnight  there  ; 


»Hh  hurt  poem. 


98 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in 

earth,  or  sea,  or  air  ! 
The  massive  capes  and  ruin'd  towers  seem 

conscious  of  the  calm  ; 
The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breath 
ing  heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  these  two  long  barques 

round  Dunashad  that  glide 
Must  trust  their   oars,  methinks  not  few, 

against  the  ebbing  tide. 
Oh,  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must 

urge  them  to  the  shore  ! 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride  who  sighs 

in  Baltimore. 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that 

rocky  street, 
And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with 

gently  gliding  feet  — 
A  stifled  gasp,  a  dreamy  noise  !    "  The  roof 

is  in  a  flame  !  " 
From  out  their  beds  and  to  their  doors  rush 

maid  and  sire  and  dame, 
And  meet  upon  the   threshold  stone   the 

gleaming  sabre's  fall, 
And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the 

white  or  crimson  shawl. 
The  yell  of   "Allah!"   breaks  above  the 

prayer,  and  shriek,  and  roar  : 
O  blessed  God  !  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Bal 
timore  ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against 

the  shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprung  the  mother  on  the  brand  with 

which  her  son  was  gor'd  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his 

grand-babes  clutching  wild  ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden  moaning  faint,  and 

nestled  with  the  child  : 
But  see  !   yon  pirate   strangled   lies,  and 

crush'd  with  splashing  heel, 
While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  there  sweeps 

his  Syrian  steel  : 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and 

misers  yield  their  store, 
There 's  one  hearth  well  avenged  in  the  sack 

of  Baltimore. 

Midsummer  morn  in  woodland  nigh  the 
birds  begin  to  sing, 

They  see  not  now  the  milking  maids,  —  de 
serted  is  the  spring  ; 

Midsummer  day  this  gallant  rides  from  dis 
tant  Bandon's  town, 


These  hookers  cross'd  from  stormy  Skull, 

that  skiff  from  Affadown  ; 
They  only  found  the  smoking  walls  with 

neighbors'  blood  besprent, 
And  on  the   strewed  and  trampled  beach 

awhile  they  wildly  went, 
Then  dash'd  to  sea,  and  pass'd  Cape  Clear, 

and  saw,  five  leagues  before, 
The   pirate-galley  vanishing  that  ravaged 

Baltimore. 

Oh,  some  must  tug  the   galley's  oar,  and 

some  must  tend  the  steed  ; 
This  boy  will  bear  a  Scheik's  chibouk,  and 

that  a  Bey's  jerreed. 
Oh,  some  are  for  the  arsenals  by  beauteous 

Dardanelles  ; 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's 

sandy  dells. 
The  maid  that   Bandon   gallant  sought  is 

chosen  for  the  Dey  : 
She  's  safe  —  she  's  dead  —  she  stabb'd  him 

in  the  midst  of  his  Serai  ! 
And  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire  that  noble 

maid  they  bore, 
She   only   smiled,  O'Driscoll's  child ;   she 

thought  of  Baltimore. 

'Tis  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town 

beneath  that  bloody  band, 
And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger 

concourse  stand, 
Where  high  upon  a  gallows-tree  a  yelling 

wretch  is  seen  : 
'T  is  Hackett  of  Dungarvan — he  who  steer'd 

the  Algerine  ! 
He  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout  with  scarce  a 

passing'  prayer, 
For  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many 

a  hundred  there. 
Some     mutter'd     of    MacMurchadh,   who 

brought  the  Norman  o'er  ; 
Some  curs'd  him  with  Iscariot,  that  day  in 

Baltimore. 

THE   BOATMAN    OF   KINSALE 

His  kiss  is  sweet,  his  word  is  kind, 

His  love  is  rich  to  me  ; 
I  could  not  in  a  palace  find 

A  truer  heart  than  he. 
The  eagle  shelters  not  his  nest 

From  hurricane  and  hail 
More  bravely  than  he  guards  my  breast  — * 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 


THOMAS   OSBORNE  DAVIS 


99 


The  wind  that  round  the  Fastnet  sweeps 

Is  not  a  whit  more  pure, 
The  goat  that  down  Cnoc  Sheehy  leaps 

Has  not  a  foot«nore  sure. 
No  firmer  hand  nor  freer  eye 

E'er  faced  an  autumn  gale, 
De  Courcy's  heart  is  not  so  high  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

The  brawling  squires  may  heed  him  not, 

The  dainty  stranger  sneer, 
But  who  will  dare  to  hurt  our  cot 

When  Myles  O'Hea  is  here  ? 
The  scarlet  soldiers  pass  along  : 

They  'd  like,  but  fear  to  rail  : 
His  blood  is  hot,  his  blow  is  strong  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

His  hooker  's  in  the  Scilly  van, 

When  seines  are  in  the  foam, 
But  money  never  made  the  man, 

Nor  wealth  a  happy  home. 
So,  bless'd  with  love  and  liberty, 

While  he  can  trim  a  sail, 
He  '11  trust  in  God,  and  cling  to  me  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

THE   WELCOME 

)ME  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn 
ing  ; 

[  Come  when  you  're  look'd  for,  or  come  with 
out  warning  : 

Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before 
you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 
I  '11  adore  you  ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted  ; 

.Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 
blighted  ; 

!>  The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than 
ever, 

;  And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers 
don't  sever ! " 

'•  I  '11  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you 
choose  them,  — 


Or,  after  you  've  kiss'd  them,  they  '11  lie  on 

my  bosom  ; 
I  '11  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to 

inspire  you  ; 
I  '11  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't 

tire  you. 
Oh  !  your  step 's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- 

vex'd  farmer, 
Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without 

armor ; 
I  '11  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise 

above  me, 
Then,  wandering,  I  '11  wish  you  in  silence 

to  love  me. 

We  '11  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff 

and  the  eyrie  ; 
We  '11  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track 

of  the  fairy  ; 
We  '11  look  on  the  stars,  and  we  '11  list  to 

the  river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you 

can  give  her  : 

Oh  !  she  '11  whisper  you  —  "  Love,  as  un 
changeably  beaming, 
And  trust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully 

streaming  ; 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall 

quiver, 
As  our   souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's 

river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn 
ing  ; 

Come  when  you  're  looked  for,  or  come  with 
out  warning  : 

Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before 
you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 
I  '11  adore  you  ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted  ; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 
blighted  ; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 
than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers 
don't  sever  I " 


IOO 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


THE    IRISH    RAPPAREES 

RIGH  Shemus1  he  has  gone  to  France,  and 

left  his  crown  behind  ; 
111  luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put 

running  in  his  mind  ! 
Lord     Lucan     followed     after     with     his 

Slashers  brave  and  true, 
And   now   the    doleful   keen   is   raised  — 

"  What  will  poor  Ireland  do  ? 
What  must  poor  Ireland  do  ? 
Our  luck,"  they  say,   "  has  gone  to  France 

—  what  can  poor  Ireland  do  ?  " 

O,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  sol 
diers  still, 

For  Rory's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Re- 
my's  on  the  hill  ! 

And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more   loyal 
hearts  than  these  — 

May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the 

faithful  Rapparees  ! 
The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 

The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish 
Rapparees  ! 

O,  black's  your   heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and 

colder  than  the  clay  ! 
O,  high  's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since 

Sarsfield  's  gone  away  ! 
It 's  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of 

long  ago  ; 
But  hold  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can 

strike  a  deadly  blow  — 
Can  strike  a  mortal  blow  : 
Och,   duar-na-Crfosd  !    't  is   she   that   still 

could  strike  a  deadly  blow  ! 


The  Master's  bawn,  thq»  Master's   seat,   a 

surly  bodagh  fills  ; 
The   Master's   son,   an   outlawed   man,   is 

riding  on  the  hills. 
But  God  be  prais'd  that  round  him  throng, 

as  thick  as  summer  bees, 
The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  wall  — 

his  loyal  Rapparees  ! 
His  loving  Rapparees  ! 
Who  dare  say  no  to  Rory  Oge,  with  all  his 

Rapparees  ? 

Black  Billy  Grimes  of  Latnamard,  he  rack'd 

us  long  and  sore  — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke  !  — 

we  '11  never  see  them  more  ; 
But  I  '11  go  bail  he  '11  break  no  more,  while 

Truagh  has  gallows-trees  ; 
For  why  ?  —  he  met,  one  lonesome  night, 

the  fearless  Rapparees  ! 
The  angry  Rapparees  ! 
They  never   sin   no  more,  my  boys,  who 

cross  the  Rapparees  ! 

Now,    Sassenach    and    Cromweller,    take 

heed  of  what  I  say, 
Keep    down  your  black   and  angry  looks 

that  scorn  us  night  and  day  : 
For  there  's  a  just  and  wrathful  Judge  that 

every  action  sees, 
And  He  '11  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong, 

the  faithful  Rapparees  ! 
The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 
The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield's  side,  the 

roving  Rapparees  ! 


SE>eni£  Florence 


BLESS  THE  DEAR  OLD  VER 
DANT  LAND 

BLESS  the  dear  old  verdant  land  ! 

Brother,  wert  thou  born  of  it  ? 
As  thy  shadow  life  doth  stand 
Twining  round  its  rosy  band, 
Did  an  Irish  mother's*  hand 

Guide  thee  in  the  morn  of  it  ? 


Did  a  father's  first  command 
Teach  thee  love  or  scorn  of  it  ? 

Thou  who  tread'st  its  fertile  breast, 

Dost  thou  feel  a  glow  for  it  ? 
Thou  of  all  its  charms  possest, 
Living  on  its  first  and  best, 
Art  thou  but  a  thankless  guest 
Or  a  traitor  foe  for  it  ? 


JKing  James  II. 


I 


MACCARTHY  —  DOWLING 


101 


If  thou  lovest,  where  's  the  test  ? 
Wilt  thou  strike  a  blow  for  it  ? 

Has  the  past  no  goading  sting 

That  can  make  thee  rouse  for  it  ? 

Does  thy  land's  reviving  spring, 

Full  of  buds  and  blossoming, 

Fail  to  make  thy  cold  heart  cling, 
Breathing  lover's  vows  for  it  ? 

With  the  circling  ocean's  ring 
Thou  wert  made  a  spouse  for  it. 

Hast  thou  kept  as  thou  shouldst  keep 

Thy  affections  warm  for  it, 
Letting  no  cold  feeling  creep 
Like  an  ice-breath  o'er  the  deep, 
Freezing  to  a  stony  sleep 

Hopes  the  heart  would  form  for  it, 
Glories  that  like  rainbows  peep 

Through  the  darkening  storm  for  it  ? 

Son  of  this  down-trodden  land, 

Aid  us  in  the  fight  for  it. 
We  seek  to  make  it  great  and  grand, 
Its  shipless  bays,  its  naked  strand, 
By  canvas-swelling  breezes  fanned  : 

Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight  for  it, 
The  past  expiring  like  a  brand 

In  morning's  rosy  light  for  it  ! 

Think,  this  dear  old  land  is  thine, 

And  thou  a  traitor  slave  of  it  : 
Think  how  the  Switzer  leads  his  kine, 
When  pale  the  evening  star  doth  shine  ; 


His  song  has  home  in  every  lin<>, 

Freedom  in  every  stave  of  it  ; 
Think  how  the  German  loves  hi-  Rhine 

And  worships  every  wave  of  it  ! 

Our  own  dear  land  is  bright  as  theirs, 
But  oh  !  our  hearts  are  cold  for  it  ; 

Awake  !  we  are  not  slaves,  but  heirs. 

Our  fatherland  requires  our  cares, 

Our  speech  with  men,  with  God  our  prayers; 
Spurn  blood-stain'd  Judas  gold  for  it  : 

Let  us  do  all  that  honor  dares  — 
Be  earnest,  faithful,  bold  for  it  I 

THE   IRISH   WOLF-HOUND 

FROM  "THE  FORAY  OF  CON  O'OONXELL  n 

As  fly  the  shadows  o'er  the  grass, 

He  flies  with  step  as  light  and  sure, 
He  hunts  the  wolf  through  Tostan  past. 

And  starts  the  deer  by  Lisanoure. 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells, 

O  Con  !  has  not  a  sweeter  sound 
Than  when  along  the  valley  swells 

The  cry  of  John  Mac  DonneU's  bound. 

His  stature  tall,  his  body  long, 

His  back  like  night,  his  breast  like  snow, 
His  fore-leg  pillar-like  and  strong, 

His  hind-leg  like  a  bended  bow  ; 
Rough  curling  hair,  head  long  and  thin, 

His  ear  a  leaf  so  small  and  round  ; 
Not  Bran,  the  favorite  dog  of  Fin, 

Could  rival  John  Mac  Donnell's  bound. 


25arrt)olometo  SDotoling 


THE   REVEL 
(EAST  INDIA) 

WE  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare  ; 
As  they  shout  back  our  peals  of  laughter 

It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there. 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

We  drink  in  our  comrades'  eyes  : 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing, 
Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet  ; 


'T  is  cold,  as  our  hearts  RTP  growing, 
And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 

But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  I 
And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise  : 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

There  's  many  a  hand  that 's  shaking, 

And  many  a  cheek  that 's  sunk  ; 
But  soon,  though  onr  hearts  are  breaking, 

They  '11  burn  with  the  wine  we  *ve  drunk 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  I 

'T  is  here  the  revival  lies  : 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  1 


102 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


Time  was  when  we  laugh'd  at  others  ; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then  ; 
Ha  !  ha  !  let  them  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No  !  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  thoughtless  is  here  the  wise  : 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink  ; 
We  '11  fall,  'midst  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 
Come  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

'T  is  this  that  the  respite  buys  : 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

There  's  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing, 
'T  is  the  hurricane's  sultry  breath  ; 

And  thus  does  the  warmth  of  feeling 
Turn  ice  in  the  grasp  of  Death. 


But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  1 
For  a  moment  the  vapor  flies  : 

Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning  ? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  can  sting  no  more  ? 
No,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  world  is  a  world  of  lies  : 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betray'd  by  the  land  we  find, 
When  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  are  most  behind  — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

'T  is  all  we  have  left  to  prize  : 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 


THE   MEMORY   OF   THE   DEAD 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 
He  's  all  a  knave  or  half  a  slave 

Who  slights  his  country  thus  ; 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few  : 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too  ; 
All,  all  are  gone  —  but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died  : 
All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made  ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men,          / 

Their  spirit 's  still  at  home. 


The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest  ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land  ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas,  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right ! 

They  fell,  and  pass'd  away  ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here  's  their  memory  —  may  it  bs 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite  ! 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate  ; 
And  true  men  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


THE   CELTIC   CROSS 

THROUGH  storm  and  fire  and  gloom,  I  see 
it  stand, 

Firm,  broad,  and  tall, 

The  Celtic  Cross  that  marks  our  Father 
land, 

Amid  them  all  ! 
Druids  and  Danes  and  Saxons  vainly  rage 

Around  its  base  ; 
It  standeth  shock  on  shock,  and  age  on  age, 

Star  of  our  scatter'd  race. 

O  Holy  Cross  !  dear  symbol  of  the  dread 

Death  of  our  Lord, 

Around  thee  long  have  slept  our  martyr 
dead 

Sward  over  sward. 
An  hundred  bishops  I  myself  can  count 

Among  the  slain  : 

Chiefs,  captains,  rank  and  file,  a  shining 
mount 

Of  God's  ripe  grain. 

The  monarch's  mace,  the  Puritan's  clay 
more, 

Smote  thee  not  down  ; 
On  headland  steep,  on  mountain   summit 
hoar, 

In  mart  and  town, 
In  Glendalough,  in  Ara,  in  Tyrone, 

We  find  thee  still, 
Thy  open  arms  still  stretching  to  thine  own, 

O'er  town  aud  lough  and  hill. 

And  would  they  tear  thee  out  of  Irish  soil, 

The  guilty  fools ! 
How  time  must  mock  their  antiquated  toil 

And  broken  tools  ! 

Cranmer  and  Cromwell  from  thy  grasp  re- 
tir'd, 

Baffled  and  thrown  ; 

William   and   Anne   to   sap  thy  site  con- 
spir'd,  — 

The  rest  is  known. 

Holy  Saint  Patrick,  father  of  our  faith, 

Belov'd  of  God  1 

Shield  thy  dear  Church  from  the  impend 
ing  scaith, 

Or,  if  the  rod 


Must  scourge  it  yet  again,  inspire  and  rai 

To  emprise  high 
Men  like  the  heroic  race  of  other  days, 

Who  joyed  to  die. 

Fear !  wherefore  should  the  Celtic  people 
fear 

Their  Church's  fate  ? 
The  day  is  not  —  the  day  was  never  near  — 

Could  desolate 
The  Destin'd  Island,  all  whose  seedy  clay 

Is  holy  ground  : 

Its  cross  shall  stand  till   that  predestined 
day 

When  Erin's  self  is  drown'd. 


THE   IRISH   WIFE 

I  WOULD  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land  ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand  ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life : 
An  outlaw  —  so  I  'in  near  her 

To  love  till  death  my  Irish  wife. 

0  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine, 
A  ruin'd,  hermit-haunted  place, 

But  for  the  light  that  nightly  shines 
Upon  its  walls  from  Kathleen's  face  1 

What  comfort  in  a  mine  of  gold, 
What  pleasure  in  a  royal  lifi'. 

If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold, 
If  I  could  not  wed  my  Irish  wife  ? 

1  knew  the  law  forbade  the  banns  ; 

I  knew  my  king  abhorr'd  her  race  ; 
Who  never  bent  before  their  clans 

Must  bow  before  their  ladies'  grace. 
Take  all  my  forfeited  domain, 

I  cannot  wage  with  kinsmen  strife  : 
Take  knightly  gear  and  nouie  nairn-, 

And  I  will  keep  my  Irish  wife. 

My  Irish  wife  has  clear  blue  eyes, 

My  heaven  by  day,  my  stars  by  night ; 

And  twin-like  truth  and  fondness  lie 
Within  her  swelling  bosom  white 

My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair, 

Apollo's  harp  had  once  such  strirgs, 


104 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  bear 
Her  bird-like  carol  when  she  sings. 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land  ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand  ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life  : 
In  death  I  would  be  near  her, 

And  rise  beside  my  Irish  wife. 

THE   EXILE'S   DEVOTION 

IF  I  forswear  the  art  divine 

That  glorifies  the  dead, 
What  comfort  then  can  I  call  mine, 

What  solace  seek  instead  ? 
For  from  my  birth  our  country's  fame 

Was  life  to  me,  and  love  ; 
And  for  each  loyal  Irish  name 

Some  garland  still  I  wove. 

I  'd  rather  be  the  bird  that  sings 

Above  the  martyr's  grave, 
Than  fold  in  fortune's  cage  my  wings 

And  feel  my  soul  a  slave  ; 
I  'd  rather  turn  one  simple  verse 

True  to  the  Gaelic  ear 


Than  sapphic  odes  I  might  rehearse 
With  senates  listening  near. 

Oh,  native  land  !  dost  ever  mark, 

When  the  world's  din  is  drown'd 
Betwixt  the  daylight  and  the  dark, 

A  wandering  solemn  sound 
That  on  the  western  wind  is  borne 

Across  thy  dewy  breast  ? 
It  is  the  voice  of  those  who  mourn 

For  thee,  in  the  far  West. 

For  them  and  theirs  I  oft  essay 

Thy  ancient  art  of  song, 
And  often  sadly  turn  away, 

Deeming  my  rashness  wrong  ; 
For  well  I  ween,  a  loving  will 

Is  all  the  art  I  own  : 
Ah  me  !  could  love  suffice  for  skill, 

What  triumphs  I  had  known  ! 

My  native  land  !  my  native  land  I 

Live  in  my  memory  still  ! 
.  Break  on  my  brain,  ye  surges  grand  ! 

Stand  up,  mist-cover'd  hill  ! 
Still  on  the  mirror  of  the  mind 

The  scenes  I  love,  I  see  : 
Would  I  could  fly  on  the  western  wind, 

My  native  land,  to  thee  ! 


3[ane  francegta 


("  SPERANZA  ") 


THE  VOICE   OF   THE   POOR 

WAS  sorrow  ever  like  unto  our  sorrow  ? 

O  God  above  ! 

Will  our  night  never  change  into  a  mor 
row 

Of  joy  and  love  ? 

A  deadly  gloom  is  on  us  —  waking  —  sleep 
ing — 

Like  the  darkness  at  noon-tide 
That  fell   upon  the  pallid  Mother,  weep 
ing 
By  the  Crucified. 

Before  us  die  our  brothers  of  starvation  : 
Around    are    cries   cf    famine   and   de 
spair  : 


Where  is  hope  for  us,  or  comfort,  or  salva 
tion  ? 

Where,  oh,  where  ? 
If  the  angels  ever  hearken,  downward  bend- 

TK    lng' 

ihey  are  weeping,  we  are  sure, 

At  the  litanies  of  human  groans  ascend= 

ing 
From  the  crush'd  hearts  of  the  poor. 

When  the  human  rests  in  love  upon  the 

human, 

All  grief  is  light ; 
But  who  bends  one  kind  glance  to  illumine 

Our  life-long  night  ? 

The  air  around  is  ringing  with  their  laugh 
ter  ; 
God  has  only  made  the  rich  to  smile  : 


LADY   WILDE —MARY   KELLY 


But  we,  in  our  rags  and  want  aiid  woe,  we 

follow  after, 
Weeping  the  while. 

And  the  laughter  seems  but  utter'd  to  de 
ride  us  : 

When,  oh  !  when, 
Will    full   the  frozen  barriers  that  divide 

us 

From  other  men  ? 
Will    ignorance    for    ever    thus    enslave 

us  ! 

Will  misery  for  ever  lay  us  low  ? 
All   are    eager  with   their   insults,  but  to 

save  us 
None,  none,  we  know. 


We  never  knew  a  childhood's  mirth  and 

gladness, 
Nor  the  proud  heart  of  youth  free  and 

brave  ; 
Oh  !  a  death-like  dream  of  wretchedness 

and  sadness 

Is    our    life's    weary    journey    to    the 
grave. 

f)ay  by  day  we  lower  sink  and  lower, 
Till  the  god-like  soul  within 


TIPPERARY 

;E  you  ever  in  sweet  Tipperary,  where 

the  fields  are  so  sunny  and  green, 
And  the  heath-brown  Slieve-blooin  and  the 
Galtees  look  down  with  so  proud  a 
mien? 
is  there  you  would  see  more  beauty  than 

is  on  all  Irish  ground  — 
God  bless  you,  my  sweet  Tipperary  !  for 
where  could  your  match  be  found  ? 

They  say  that  your  hand  is  fearful,  that 

darkness  is  in  your  eye  ; 
But  I  '11  not  let  them  dare  to  talk  so  black 

and  bitter  a  lie. 
0,  no  !  macushla  storin,  bright,  bright,  and 

warm  are  you, 
With  hearts  as  bold  as  the  men  of  old,  to 

yourself  and  your  country  true. 

And  when  there  is  gloom   upon  you,  bid 
them  think  who  brought  it  there  — 


Falls  crush'd,  beneath  the  fearful  demon 

power 
Of  poverty  and  sin. 

So  we  toil  on  —  on,  with  fever  burning 

In  heart  and  brain  ; 
So  we  toil  on  —  on,  through  bitter  scorning, 

Want,  woe  and  pain  : 

We  dare  not  raise  our  eyes  to  the  blue 
heaven 

Or  the  toil  must  cease  ; 
We  dare  not  breathe  the  fresh  air  God  ha* 
given. 

One  hour  in  peace. 

We  must  toil,  though  the  light  of  life  is 

burning, 
Oh,  how  dim  ! 

We  must  toil  on  our  sick  bed,  feebly  turn 
ing 

Our  eyes  to  Him 
Who  alone  can  hear  the  pale  lip  faintly 

saying 

With  scarce  mov'd  breath, 
And  the  paler  hands,  uplifted,  and  the  pray 
ing,  — 
"  Lord,  grant  us  Death  !  " 


Sure  a  frown  or  a  word  of  hatred  was  not 
made  for  your  face  so  fair  ; 

You  *ve  a  hand  for  the  grasp  of  friendship 
—  another  to  make  them  quake, 

And  they  're  welcome  to  whichsoever  it 
pleases  them  to  take. 

Shall  our  homes,  like  the  huts  of  Connatight, 

be  crumbled  before  our  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  fly,  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  from 

all  that  we  love  and  prize  ? 
No  !  by  those  that  were  here  before  us,  no 

churl  shall  our  tyrant  be, 
Our  land  it  is  theirs  by  plunder  —  but,  by 

Brigid,  ourselves  are  free  ! 

No  !  we  do  not  forget  the  greatness  did 
once  to  sweet  Eire  belong  ; 

No  treason  or  craven  spirit  was  ever  our 
race  among  ; 

And  no  frown  or  word  of  hatred  we  giye  — 
but  to  pay  them  back  ; 

In  evil  we  only  follow  our  enemies'  dark 
some  track. 


io6 


"THE   OATEN   FLUTE" 


O,  come  for  awhile  among  us  and  give  us 
the  friendly  hand  ! 

And  you  '11  see  that  old  Tipperary  is  a  lov 
ing  and  gladsome  land  ; 


From  Upper  to  Lower  Ormonde,  bright 
welcomes  and  smiles  will  spring  : 

On  the  plains  of  Tipperary  the  stranger  is 
like  a  king. 


SDotoning 


WERE   I   BUT   HIS   OWN   WIFE 

WERE  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  guard  and  to 

guide  him, 
'T  is  little  of  sorrow  should  fall  on  nay 

dear  ; 

I  'd  chant  my  low  love-verses,  stealing  be 
side  him, 
So  faint  and  so  tender  his  heart  would 

but  hear  ; 
I  'd  pull  the  wild  blossoms  from  valley  and 

highland, 
And  there  at  his  feet  I  would  lay  them 

all  down  ; 
I  'd  sing  him  the  songs  of  our  poor  stricken 

island, 

Till  his  heart  was  on  fire  with  a  love  like 
my  own. 

There  's  a  rose  by  his  dwelling,  — I  'd  tend 

the  lone  treasure, 
That  he  might  have  flowers  when  the 

summer  would  come  ; 
There 's  a  harp  in  his  hall,  —  I  would  wake 

its  sweet  measure, 

For  he  must  have  music  to  brighten  his 
home. 


Were  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  guide  and  to 

guard  him, 
'T  is  little  of  sorrow  should  fall  on  my 

dear  ; 
For  every  kind  glance  my  whole  life  would 

award  him, 

In  sickness  I  'd  soothe  and  in  sadness  I  'd 
cheer. 

My  heart  is  a  fount  welling  upward  for 
ever  ! 
When  I  think  of  my  true-love,  by  night 

or  by  day, 

That  heart' keeps  its  faith  like  a  fast-flow 
ing  river 
Which  gushes  forever  and  sings  on  its 

way. 
I  have  thoughts  full  of  peace  for  his  soul  to 

repose  in, 
Were  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  win  and  to 

woo  ; 
O  sweet,  if  the  night  of  misfortune  were 

closing, 

To  rise  like  the  morning   star,  darling, 
for  you  1 


"THE   OATEN   FLUTE" 


IteiHiam 

(DORSET) 


WOONE  SMILE  MWORE 

0  !  MEAKY,  when  the  zun  went  down, 
Woone  night  in  spring,  w'  viry  rim, 

Behind  the  nap  wi'  woody  crown, 
An'  left  your  smilen  feace  so  dim  } 


Your  little  sister  there,  inside, 
Wi'  bellows  on  her  little  knee, 

Did  blow  the  vire,  a-glearen  wide 

Drough   window-peanes,    that    I    could 
zee, — 

As  you  did  stan'  wi'  me,  avore 

The  house,  a-pearten,— woone  smile  mwore, 


WILLIAM   BARNES 


107 


The  chatt'ren  birds,  a-riscn  high, 

An'  zinkcn  low,  did  swiftly  vlee 
Vroin  shrinkcn  moss,  a-groweu  dry, 

Upon  the  leanen  apple  tree. 
An'  there  the  dog,  a-whippen  wide 

His  heiiiry  tai'l,  an'  comen  near, 
Did  fondly  lay  agean  your  zide 

His  coal-black  nose  an'  russet  ear  : 
To  win  what  I  'd  a-won  avore, 
Vroiu   your   gay   feace,   his    woone   smile 
mwore. 

An'  while  your  mother  bustled  sprack, 

A-getten  supper  out  in  hall, 
An'  cast  her  sheade,  a-whiv'ren  black 

Avore  the  vire,  upon  the  wall  ; 
Your  brother  come,  wi'  easy  peace, 

In  drough  the  slammen  geate,  along 
The  path,  wi'  healthy-bloomen  feace, 

A-whis'len  shrill  his  last  new  zong : 
An'  when  he  come  avore  the  door, 
He  met  vrom  you  his  woone  smile  mwore. 

Now  you  that  wer  the  daughter  there, 
Be  mother  on  a  husband's  vloor, 

An'  mid  ye  meet  wi'  less  o'  ceare 

Than  what  your  hearty  mother  bore  ; 

An'  if  abroad  I  have  to  rue 

The  bitter  tongue,  or  wrongvul  deed, 
[id  I  come  hwome  to  sheare  wi'  you 
What 's  needvul  free  o'  pinchen  need  : 

An'  vind  that  you  ha'  still  in  store 


My     evenen 
mwore. 


meal,     an'   woone    smile 


BLACKMWORE   MAIDENS 

THE  primrwose  in  the  sheade  do  blow, 
The  cowslip  in  the  zun, 
The  thyme  upon  the  down  do  grow, 
The  clote  where  streams  do  run  ; 
An'  where  do  pretty  maidens  grow 
An'  blow,  but  where  the  tow'r 
Do  rise  among  the  bricken  tuns, 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  could  zee  their  comely  gait, 
An'  pretty  feaces'  smiles, 
A-tnppen  on  so  light  o'  walght, 
An'  steppen  off  the  stiles  ; 
A-gwain  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 
An*  ring  'ithin  the  tow'r, 
You  'd  own  the  pretty  maidens'  pleace 
Is  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 


If  you  vrom  Wimborne  took  your  road, 

To  Stower  or  Paladore, 

An'  all  the  farmers'  houaen  show'd 

Their  daughters  at  the  door  ; 

You  'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwome  — 

"Here,  come  :  'ithin  an  hour 

You  '11  vind  ten  maidens  to  your  mind, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

An*  if  you  look'd  'ithin  their  door, 

To  zee  em  in  their  pleace, 

A-doen  housework  up  avore 

Their  smilen  mother  s  feace  ; 

You  'd  cry  —  "  Why,  if  a  man  would  wire 

An'  thrive,  'ithout  a  dow'r, 

Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

As  I  upon  my  road  did  pass 
A  school-house  back  in  May, 
There  out  upon  the  beaten  grass 
Wer  maidens  at  their  play  ; 
An'  as  the  pretty  souls  did  tweil 
An'  smile,  I  cried,  «  The  flow'r 
O'  beauty,  then,  is  still  in  bud 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

THE   HEARE 

(1)  THERE  be  the  greyhounds  !   Io*k  !  an1 

there  's  the  heare  ! 

(2)  What  houn's,  the  squier's,  Thomas? 

where,  then,  where  ? 

(1)  Why,  out  in  Ash  Hill,  near  the  barn, 

behind 

Thik  tree.     (3)  The  pollard?     (1)  Pol- 
lard!  no!  b 'ye  blind? 

(2)  There,  I  do  zee  em  over-right  thik 

cow. 

(3)  The  red  woone  ?   (1)  No,  a  mile  be- 

yand  her  now. 

(3)   Oh  !  there 's  the  heare,  a-mettken  for 
the  drong. 

(2)  My  goodness  !      How  the  dogs   do 

zweep  along, 
A-poken  out  their  pweinted  noses'  tips. 

(3)  He  can't  allow  hizzelf  much  time  vor 

slips  ! 

(1)  They'll  hab  en,  after  all,  111  bet  a 

crown. 

(2)  Done  vor  a   crown.     They  woon't ! 

He 's  gwain  to  gronn'. 

(3)  He  is  !    (1)  He  idden  I    (3)  Ah  I  'tU 

well  his  tooes 
Ha'  got  noo  corns,  inside  o'  hobnail  MM* 


io8 


"THE   OATEN   FLUTE" 


(1)    He  's  geame  a-runnen  too.     Why,  he 

do  mwore 
Than  earn  his  life.     (3)    His  life  wer  his 

avore. 
(1)    There,   now  the   dogs  wull   turn   en. 

(2)    No  !  He  's  right. 
(1)    He   idden!       (2)    Ees   he   is!       (3) 

He  's  out  o'  zight. 

(1)  Aye,  aye.     His  mettle  wull  be  well  a- 

tried 

Agwai'n  down  Verny  Hill,  o'  t'  other  zide. 
They  '11  have  en  there.     (3)    O  no  !  a  vew 

good  hops 
Wull  teake  en  on  to  Knapton  Lower  Copse. 

(2)  An'  that 's  a  meesh  that  he  've  a-took 

avore. 

(3)  Ees,   that's    his   hwome.      (1)  He'll 

never  reach  his  door. 
(2)    He  wull.     (1)    Hewoon't.     (3)    Now, 

hark,  d  'ye  hear  em  now  ? 
(2)    O  !  here  's  a  bwoy  a-come  athirt  the 

brow 
O' Knapton  Hill.   We '11  ax  en.    (1)  Here, 

my  bwoy  ! 
Canst  tell   us   where 's   the   heare?      (4) 

He  's  got  awoy. 

(2)   Ees,  got  awoy,  in  coo'se,  I  never  zeed 
A  heare  a-scoten  on  wi'  half  his  speed. 

(1)  Why,  there,  the  dogs  be  wold,  an'  half 

a-done. 
They  can 't  catch  anything  wi'  lags  to  run. 

(2)  Vrom  vu'st  to  last  they  had  but  little 

chance 
0*  catchen   o'  'n.     (3)   They  had  a  perty 

dance. 
(1)    No,  catch   en,  no  !     I   little  thought 

they  would  ; 
He  know'd  his  road  too  well  to  Knapton 

Wood. 

(3)  No  !  no  !     I  wish  the  squier  would  let 

me  feare 

On  rabbits  till  his  hounds   do  catch  thik 
heare. 

THE   CASTLE   RUINS 

A  HAPPY  day  at  Whitsuntide, 
As  soon  's  the  zun  begun  to  vail, 


We  all  stroll'd  up  the  steep  hill-zide 

To  Meldon,  gret  an'  small  ; 
Out  where  the  Castle  wall  stood  high 
A-mwoldren  to  the  zunny  sky. 

An'  there  wi'  Jenny  took  a  stroll 
Her  youngest  sister,  Poll,  so  gay, 

Bezide  John  Hind,  ah  !  merry  soul, 
An'  mid  her  wedlock  fay  ; 

An'  at  our  zides  did  play  an'  run 

My  little  mai'd  an'  smaller  son. 

Above  the  beaten  mwold  upsprung 
The  driven  doust,  a-spreaden  light, 

An'  on  the  new-leav'd  thorn,  a-hung, 
Wer  wool  a-quiv'ren  white  ; 

An'  corn,  a-sheenen  bright,  did  bow, 

On  slopen  Meldon's  zunny  brow. 

There,  down  the  roofless  wall  did  glow 
The  zun  upon  the  grassy  vloor, 

An'  weakly-wandren  winds  did  blow, 
Unhinder'd  by  a  door  ; 

An'  smokeless  now  avore  the  zun 

Did  stan'  the  ivy-girded  tun. 

My    bwoy    did    watch    the   daws'   bright 

wings 

A-flappen  vrom  their  ivy  bow'rs  ; 
My     wife     did    watch    my    maid's    light 

springs, 

Out  here  an'  there  vor  flow'rs  ; 
And  John  did  zee  noo  tow'rs,  the  pleace 
Vor  him  had  only  Polly's  feace. 

An'  there,  of  all  that  pried  about 
The  walls,  I  overlook'd  em  best, 

An'  what  o'  that  ?     Why,  I  meade  out 
Noo  mwore  than  all  the  rest : 

That  there  wer  woonce  the  nest  of  zome 

That  wer  a-gone  avore  we  come. 

When  woonce  above  the  tun  the  smoke 
Did  wreathy  blue  among  the  trees. 

An'  down  below,  the  liven  vo'k 
Did  tweil  as  brisk  as  bees  ; 

Or  zit  wir  weary  knees,  the  while 

The  sky  wer  lightless  to  their  tweil. 


"THE  OATEN   FLUTE 


109 


(LANCASHIRE) 


:E    DULE'S    I'    THIS    BONNET 
O'   MINE 

THK  dale  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine  ; 

My  ribhins  '11  never  be  reet  ; 
Here,  Mally,  aw  'm  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie  '11  be  comin'  to-neet  ; 
He  met  me  i'  th'  lone  t'  other  day,  — 

Aw  're  gooin'  for  wayter  to  th'  well,  — 
An'    he    begg'd    that    aw  'd    wed    him    i' 
May;  — 

Bi  th'  mass,  iv  he  '11  let  me,  aw  will  ! 

he  took  my  two  houds  into  his, 
Good  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  between  ; 
in'  aw  dnrstn't  look  up  in  his  face, 
Becose  on  him  seein'  my  e'en  ; 
My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose  ;  — 

There  's  never  a  mortal  can  tell 
Hcnw  happy  aw  felt  ;  for,  thea  knows, 
One  could  n't  ha'  ax'd  him  theirseF. 

But  th'  tale  wur  at  th'  end  o'  my  tung,  — 

To  let  it  eawt  would  n't  be  reet,  — 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung, 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet ; 
But  Mally,  thae  knows  very  weel,  — 

Though  it  is  n'  t  a  thing  one  should  own,  — 
'Iv  aw  'd  th'  pikein'  o'th'  world  to  mysel', 

Aw  'd  oather  ha*  Jamie  or  noan. 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  've  towd  tho  my  mind  ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  't  wur  thee  ? 
"  Aw  'd  tak  him  just  while  he  're  incliu'd, 

An'  a  farrantly  bargain  he  'd  be  ; 
For  Jamie  's  as  gradely  a  lad 
.     As  ever  stepp'd  eawt  into  th'  sun  ;  — 
^Go,  jump  at  thy  chance,  an'  get  wed, 

An'  may  th'  best   o'  th'   job  when   it 's 
done  ! " 

Eh,  dear,  but  it 's  time  to  be  gwon,  — 

Aw  should  n't  like  Jamie  to  wait ; 
Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon, 

An'  aw  would  n't  for  th'  world  be  too 

late  ; 
Aw  'tn  o'  ov  a  tremble  to  th'  heel,  — 

Dost  think  'at  my  bonnet  '11  do  ?  — 
u  Be  off,  lass,  —  thae  looks  very  weel  ; 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo  1  " 


TH'  SWEETHEART  GATE 

OH,  there's  mony  a  gate  eawt  ov 
teawn-end, 

But  nobbut  one  for  me  ; 
It  winds  by  a  rindlin'  wayter  side, 

An'  o'er  a  posied  lea, 
It  wanders  into  a  shady  dell  ; 

An'  when  aw  've  done  for  th'  day, 
Aw  never  can  sattle  this  heart  o'  mine, 

Beawt  walkiu'  deawn  tliat  way. 


It 's  noather  garden,  nor  posied  lea, 

Nor  wayter  rindliu'  clear  ; 
But  deawn  i'  th  vale  there 's  a  rosy  nook, 

An'  my  true  love  lives  theer. 
It 's  olez  summer  where  th'  heart 's  content, 

Tho'  wintry  winds  may  blow  ; 
An'  there  's  never  a  gate  'at 's  so  kind  to  th* 
fuut, 

As  th'  gate  one  likes  to  go. 

When  aw  set  off  o'  sweetheartin,'  aw  Ve 

A  theawsan*  things  to  say  ; 
But  £h'  very  first  glent  o'  yon  chimbley-top 

It  drives  'em  o'  away  ; 
An'  when  aw  meet  wi'  my  bonny  lass, 

It  sets  my  heart  a-jee  ;  — 
Oh,  there  's  suminut  i'  th'  leet  o'  yon  two 
blue  e'en 

That  plays  the  dule  wi'  me  ! 

When  th'  layrock  's  finished  his  wark  aboon, 

An'  laid  his  music  by, 
He  flutters  deawn  to  his  mate,  an'  stops 

Till  dayleet  stirs  i'  th'  sky. 
Though  Matty  sends  me  away  at  dark, 

Aw  know  that  hoo  's  reet  full  well ;  — 
An'  it 's  heaw  aw  love  a  true-hearted  lass, 

No  mortal  tung  can  tell  ! 

Aw  wish  that  Candlemas  day  were  past, 

When  wakin'  time  comes  on  ; 
An*  aw  wish  that  Kesmass  time  were  here, 

An'  Matty  an'  me  were  one. 
Aw  wish  this  wanderin'  wark  were  o'er— 

This  maunderin'  to  an'  fro  ; 
That  aw  could  go  whoam  to  my  own  true 
love, 

An'  stop  at  neet  an'  o'. 


no 


THE   OATEN    FLUTE" 


OWD    FINDER 

OWD  Finder  were  a  rackless  foo, 

An'  spent  his  days  i'  spreein' ; 
At  th'  end  ov  every  drinkin'-do, 

He  're  sure  to  crack  o'  deein' ; 
"  Go,  sell  my  rags,  an'  sell  my  shoon  ; 

Aw 's  never  live  to  trail  'em  ; 
My  ballis-pipes  are  eawt  o'  tune, 

An'  th'  wynt  begins  to  fail  'em  ! 

"  Eawr  Matty  's  very  fresh  an'  yung  ; 

'T  would  ony  mon  bewilder  ; 
Hoo  '11  wed  again  afore  it 's  lung, 

For  th'  lass  is  fond  o'  childer  ; 
My  bit  o'  brass  '11  fly,  —  yo  'n  see,  — 

When  th'  coffin-lid  has  screen'd  me  ; 
It  gwos  again  my  pluck  to  dee, 

An'  lev  her  wick  beheend  me. 

"  Come,  Matty,  come,  an'  cool  my  yed, 
Aw  'm  finish'd,  to  my  thinkin'  ; " 

Hoo  happ'd  him  nicely  up,  an'  said,  — 
"  Thae  's  brought  it  on  wi'  drinkin' ! ' 


Nay,    nay, 
done  : 


said     he,     "my    fuddle  's 


We  're  partin'  t'  one  fro'  t'  other  ; 
So,  promise  me  that  when  a  'm  gwon, 
Thea  '11  never  wed  another  !  " 

"Th'   owd  tale,"   said   hoo,    an'   laft 
stoo, 

"  It 's  rayley  past  believin'  ; 
Thee  think  o'  th'  world  thea  'rt  goin'  to, 

An'  leave  this  world  to  th'  livin'  ; 
What  use  to  me  can  deead  folk  be  ? 

Thae  's  kilt  thisel'  wi  spreein' ; 
An'  iv  that 's  o'  thae  wants  wi'  me, 

Get  forrud  wi'  thi  deein' !  " 

He  scrat  his  yed,  he  rubb'd  his  e'e, 

An'  then  he  donn'd  his  breeches  ; 
"  Eawr  Matty  gets  as  fause,"  said  he, 

"  As  one  o'  Pendle  witches  ; 
Iv  ever  aw  'm  to  muster  wit, 

It  mun  be  now  or  never  ; 
Aw  think  aw  '11  try  to  live  a  bit  ; 

It  would  n't  do  to  lev  her  ! " 


her 


(LANCASHIRE) 


WELCOME,   BONNY   BRID ! 

THA  'rt  welcome,  little  bonny  brid, 
But   should  n't   ha'  come   just   when   tha 
did; 

Toimes  are  bad. 

We  're  short  o'  pobbies  for  eawr  Joe, 
But  that,  of  course,  tha  did  n't  know, 

Did  ta,  lad  ? 

Aw've  often  yeard  mi  feyther  tell, 
?At  when  aw  coom  i'  th'  world  misel 

Trade  wur  slack  ; 

An'  neaw  it 's  hard  wark  pooin'  throo  — 
But  aw  munno  fear  thee  ;  iv  aw  do 

Tha  '11  go  back. 

Cheer  up  !  these  toimes  'ull  awter  soon  ; 
Aw  'in  beawn  to  beigh  another  spoon  — 

One  for  thee  ; 

An'  as  tha  's  sich  a  pratty  face, 
Aw  '11  let  thee  have  eawr  Charley's  place 

On  mi  knee. 


God  bless  thee,  love,  aw  'm  fain  tha  'rt  come, 
Just  try  an'  mak  thisel  awhoam  : 

What  ar  't  co'd  ? 
Tha  'rt  loike  thi  mother  to  a  tee, 
But  tha 's  thi  feyther's  nose,  aw  see, 

Well,  aw'mblow'd! 

Come,  come,  tha  need  n't  look  so  shy, 
Aw  am  no'  blackin'  thee,  not  I  ; 

Settle  deawn, 

An'  tak  this  haup'ney  for  thisel', 
There  's  lots  o'  sugar-sticks  to  sell 

Deawu  i'  th'  teawn. 

Aw  know  when  furst  aw  coom  to  th'  leet 
Aw  're  fond  o'  owt  'at  tasted  sweet ; 

Tha  '11  be  th'  same. 
But  come,  tha 's  never  towd  thi  dad 
What  he  's  to  co  thi  yet,  mi  lad  — 

What 's  thi  name  ? 

Hush  !  hush  !  tha  munno  cry  this  way, 
But  get  this  sope  o'  cinder  tay 
While  it 's  warm  j 


LAYCOCK  —  ELLIOTT 


in 


Mi  mother  us'd  to  give  it  me, 
When  aw  wur  sich  a  lad  as  thee, 
In  her  arm. 

Hush  a  babby,  hush  a  bee  — 
Oh,  what  a  temper  !  dear  a-me, 

Heaw  tha  skroikes  ! 
Here 's  a  bit  o'  sugar,  sithee  ; 
Howd  thi  noise,  an'  then  aw  '11  gie  thee 

Owt  tha  loikes. 

We  'n  nobbut  getten  coarsish  fare, 
But  eawt  o'  this  tha  'st  ha'  thi  share, 

Never  fear. 

Aw  hope  tha  '11  never  want  a  meel, 
But  allus  fill  thi  bally  weel 

While  tha  'rt  here. 


Thi  feyther  's  noan  bin  wed  so  long, 
An'  yet  tha  sees  he  's  middlin'  throng 

Wi'  yo'  o  : 

Besides  thi  little  brother,  Ted, 
We  '11  one  up-steers,  asleep  i'  bed 

Wi'  eawr  Joe. 

But  though  we  'n  childer  two  or  three, 
We  '11  mak'  a  bit  o'  reawm  for  thee  — 

Bless  thee,  lad  ! 
Tha  'rt  th'  prattiest  brid  we  ban  i* 

nest ; 
Come,  hutch  up  closer  to  mi  breast  — 

Aw  "in  thi  dad. 


ttf 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW  DAY 

(HUMANITY  —  FREE  THOUGHT  —  POLITICAL,  SOCIAL,  AND  ARTISTIC,  REFORM) 


ELEGY  ON  WILLIAM  COBBETT 

O  BEAR  him  where  the  rain  can  fall, 
And  where  the  winds  can  blow  ; 

And  let  the  sun  weep  o'er  his  pall 
As  to  the  grave  ye  go  ! 

id  in  some  little  lone  churchyard, 
Beside  the  growing  corn, 
Lay  gentle  Nature's  stern  prose  bard, 
Her  mightiest  peasant-born. 

Tea  !  let  the  wild-flower  wed  his  grave, 
That  bees  may  murmur  near, 

•n  o'er  his  last  home  bend  the  brave, 
And  say  —  "A  man  lies  here  ! " 

Tor  Britons  honor  Cobbett's  name, 

Though  rashly  oft  he  spoke  ; 
ind  none  can  scorn,  and  few  will  blame, 

The  low-laid  heart  of  oak. 

;e,  o'er  his  prostrate  branches,  see  ! 
E'en  factious  hate  consents 
To  reverence,  in  the  fallen  tree, 
His  British  lineaments. 


Elliott 

Though  gnarl'd  the  storm-toss'd  boughs 
that  brav'd 

The  thunder's  gather'd  scowl, 
Not  always  through  his  darkness  rav'd 

The  storm-winds  of  the  soul. 

O,  no  !  in  hours  of  golden  calm 

Morn  met  his  forehead  bold  ; 
And  breezy  evening  sang  her  psalm 

Beneath  his  dew-dropp'd  gold. 

The  wren  its  crest  of  fibred  fire 
With  his  rich  bronze  compar'd, 

While  many  a  youngling's  songful  sire 
His  acorn'd  twiglets  shar'd. 

The  lark,  above,  sweet  tribute  paid, 
Where  clouds  with  light  were  riven  ; 

And  true  love  sought  his  bluebell'd  shade, 
"  To  bless  the  hour  of  heaven." 

E'en  when  his  stormy  voice  was  loud, 
And  guilt  quak'd  at  the  sound, 

Beneath  the  frown  that  shook  the  proud 
The  poor  a  shelter  found. 


112 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


Dead  oak  !  thou  livest.    Thy  smitten  hands, 

The  thunder  of  thy  brow, 
Speak  with  strange  tongues  in  many  lands, 

And  tyrants  hear  thee,  now  ! 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  name, 

Inspir'd  by  thy  renown, 
Shall  future  patriots  rise  to  fame, 

And  many  a  sun  go  down. 

A   POET'S    EPITAPH 

STOP,  mortal  !     Here  thy  brother  lies  — 

The  poet  of  the  poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor  ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail, 

The  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace  —  and  the  grave. 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere  ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blam'd  ? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  exemption  claim'd. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  fear'd  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
But,  honoring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great, 
He  bless'd  the  steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little,  more  ; 
Yet  loath'd  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plunder 'd  labor's  store. 


A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare  — 

Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 
Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 

THE    BUILDERS 

SPRING,  summer,  autumn,  winter, 

Come  duly,  as  of  old  ; 
Winds  blow,  suns  set,  and  morning  sait 

"  Ye  hills,  put  on  your  gold." 

The  song  of  Homer  liveth, 

Dead  Solon  is  not  dead  ; 
Thy  splendid  name,  Pythagoras, 

O'er  realms  of  suns  is  spread. 

But  Babylon  and  Memphis 

Are  letters  traced  in  dust  : 
Read  them,  earth's  tyrants  !  ponder  well 

The  might  in  which  ye  trust  ! 

They  rose,  while  all  the  depths  of  guilt 
Their  vain  creators  sounded  ; 

They  fell,  because  on  fraud  and  force 
Their  corner-stones  were  founded. 

Truth,  mercy,  knowledge,  justice, 
Are  powers  that  ever  stand  ; 

They  build  their  temples  in  the  soul, 
And  work  with  God's  right  hand. 


THE   BARONS   BOLD 

THE  Barons  bold  on  Runnymede 

By  union  won  their  charter  ; 
True  men  were  they,  prepar'd  to  bleed, 

But  not  their  rights  to  barter  : 
And  they  swore  that  England's  laws 

Were  above  a  tyrant's  word  ; 
And  they  prov'd  that  freedom's  cause 
Was  above  a  tyrant's  sword  : 
Then  honor  we 
The  memory 

Of  those  Barons  brave  united  ; 
And  like  their  band, 
Join  hand  to  hand  : 
Our  wrongs  shall  soon  be  righted. 


The  Commons  brave,  in  Charles's  time, 

By  union  made  the  Crown  fall, 
And  show'd  the  world  how  royal  crime 

Should  lead  to  royal  downfall  : 
And  they  swore  that  rights  and  laws 

Were  above  a  monarch's  word  ; 
And  they  raised  the  nation's  cause 
Above  the  monarch's  sword  : 
Then  honor  we 
The  memory 

Of  those  Commons  brave,  united  ; 
And  like  their  band, 
Join  hand  to  hand  : 
Our  wrongs  shall  soon  be  righted. 

The  People  firm,  from  Court  and  Peers, 
By  union  won  Reform,  sirs, 


FOX— HOOD 


And,  union  safe,  the  nation  steers 

Through   sunshine  and   through   storm, 

sirs  : 
And  we  swear  that  equal  laws 

Shall  prevail  o'er  lordlings'  words, 
Ami  can  prove  that  freedom's  cause 
Is  too  strong  for  hireling  swords  : 
Then  honor  we 
The  victory 

Of  the  people  brave,  united  ; 
Let  all  our  bands 
Join  hearts  and  hands  : 
Our  wrongs  shall  all  be  righted. 

LIFE    IS    LOVE 

ITHE  fair  varieties  of  earth, 

The  heavens  serene  and  blue  above, 
The  rippling  smile  of  mighty  seas  — 

What  is  the  charm  of  all,  but  love  ? 


By  love  they  minister  to  thought, 

Love    makes   them    breathe   the   poet's 
song  ; 

When  their  Creator  best  is  prais'd, 
'T  is  love  inspires  the  adoring  throng. 

Knowledge,  and  power,  and  will  supreme, 

Are  but  celestial  tyranny, 
Till  they  are  consecrate  by  love, 

The  essence  of  divinity. 

For  love  is  strength,  and  faith,  and  hope  ; 

It  crowns  with  bliss  our  mortal  state  ; 
And,  glancing  far  beyond  the  grave, 

Foresees  a  life  of  endless  date. 

That  life  is  love  ;  and  all  of  life 

Time  or  eternity  can  prove  ; 
Both  men  and  angels,  worms  and  gods, 

Exist  in  universal  love. 


Cfjomag  l)oob 


MTHE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM 

TWAS  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 
f   Came  bounding  out  of  school  : 
There  wore  some  that  ran  and  some  that 

leap'd, 
I    Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

I    And  souls  untouch'd  by  sin  ; 

To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 
[    Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  cours'd  about, 
f    And  shouted  as  they  ran, 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 
[     As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 
!    A  melancholy  man  ! 

hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 
To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 
>r  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  rasi«  : 
he  lean'd  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees. 


Leaf  after  leaf,  he  turn'd  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside, 
For  the  peace  of   his   soul    he    read   that 
book 

In  the  golden  eventide : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome, 
With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 

He  strain'd  the  dusky  coven  eJQM» 
Ami  ftx'd  the  brazen  hasp  : 

"  Oh,  God  !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 
And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  !  " 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 
Some  moody  turns  he  took,  — 

Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 
And  past  a  shady  nook,  — 

And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 
That  por'd  upon  a  book. 

«  My  gentle  lad,  what  is  't  you  read  — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ? 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance,  — 

"It  is 'The  Death  of  Abel."' 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain, 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  slowly  back  again  ; 
And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talk'd  with  him  of  Cain  ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 
Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves  ; 
Of  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves  ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injur'd  men 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod  ; 
Aye,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 

To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 
And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 

Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God  ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  : 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain. 

«  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "  I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme,  — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe,  — 
Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why  ?  Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  dream  ! 

"  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong, 

A  feeble  man  and  old  : 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field  ; 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold  : 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  ! 

**  Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife,  — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  ; 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill  ; 
And  yet  I  fear'd  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still  : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill 


"  And,  lo  !  the  universal  air 
Seem'd  lit  with  ghastly  flame  ; 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame  : 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 
And  call'd  upon  his  name  ! 

"  Oh,  God  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 

Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 
But  when  I  touch'd  the  lifeless  clay, 

The  blood  gush'd  out  amain  ! 
For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

"  My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price  ; 
A  dozen  times  I  groan'd  :  the  dead 

Had  never  groan'd  but  twice. 

"  And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  Heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice  —  the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  : 

'  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight  ! ' 

"  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream, 
A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme  :  — 
My  gentle  Boy,  remember  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  hollow  plunj 

And  vanish'd  in  the  pool  ; 
Anon  I  cleans'd  my  bloody  hands, 

And  wash'd  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening  in  the  school. 

"  Oh,  Heaven  !  to  think  of  their  white  soi 
And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 

I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer 
Nor  join  in  Evening  Hymn  : 

Like  a  Devil  of  the  Pit  I  seem'd, 
'Mid  holy  Cherubim ! 

"  And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 
And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 

But  Guilt  was  my  grim  Chamberlain 
That  lighted  me  to  bed, 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 
With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 


THOMAS   HOOD 


-•'5 


*  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 
i    In  anguish  dark  and  deep, 
My  fever'd  eyes  I  dar'd  not  close, 

But  star'd  aghast  at  Sleep  : 
Tor  Sin  had  render'd  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep. 

l"All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
[  With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  rack'd  me  all  the  time  ; 
[A  mighty  yearning  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime  ; 

"One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  : 
Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave, 
|  Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  Dead  Man  in  his  grave  ! 

f*  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, 
Lnd  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 
With  a  wild  misgiving  eye  : 

I  saw  the  Dead  in  the  river  bed, 
For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

|w  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing  ; 
it  I  never  mark'd  its  morning  flight, 
I  never  heard  it  sing, 
Tor  I  was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 

With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

1  took  him  up  and  ran  ; 
here  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began  : 

a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murder'd  man. 

And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  other  where  ; 
soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there  ; 

a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

1  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
iV>r  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refus'd  to  keep  : 
land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 


"  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  Sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  1 
Aye,  though  he  's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh,  — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones. 

"  Oh,  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  I 
Again  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take  ; 
And    my   red   right    hand    grows  raging 
hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow  ; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul,  — 

It  stands  before  me  now  1 " 
The  fearful  Boy  look'd  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  bis  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin  eyelids  kiss'd, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walk'd  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

FLOWERS 

I  WILL  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turn'd  by  the  sun  ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean, 
Whom,  therefore  I  will  shun  ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench, 
The  violet  is  a  nun  ; 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 
In  too  much  haste  to  wed, 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  ; 
The  wolfsbane  I  should  dread  ; 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye, 
That  always  mourns  the  dead  ; 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me, 

And  the   daisy's  cheek   is   tipp'd  with  t 

blush, 
She  is  of  such  low  degree  j 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves, 
And  the  broom  's  betroth'd  to  the  bee  ; 
But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 
For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 


FAIR    INES 

O  SAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She  's  gone  into  the  West, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest  : 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Tnes, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright  ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near  ! 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  wav'd  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ;  — 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream,  - 

If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you  've  lov'd  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  J 
That  vessel  never  bore 


So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before  : 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  I 

The  smile  that  bless'd  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 

THE   DEATH-BED 

WE  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  mov'd  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  clos'd  —  she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

BALLAD 

IT  was  not  in  the  winter 
Our  loving  lot  was  cast  ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, 
We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

That  churlish  season  never  frown'd 
On  early  lovers  yet  : 
Oh,  no  —  the  world  was  newly  crown'd 
With  flowers  when  first  we  met ! 

'T  was  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 

But  still  you  held  me  fast  ; 

It  was  the  time  of  roses, 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

What  else  could  peer  thy  glowing  cheek, 
That  tears  began  to  stud  ? 
And  when  I  ask'd  the  like  of  Love, 
You  snatch'd  a  damask  bud  ; 

And  op'd  it  to  the  dainty  core, 
Still  glowing  to  the  last. 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, 
We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 


THOMAS   HOOD 


LEAR 

POOR  old  king  with  sorrow  for  my  crowii, 
ron'd  upon  straw,  and  mantled  with  the 

wind  — 

?or  pity,  my  own  tears  have  made  me  blind 
~  mt  I  might  never  see  my  children's  frown  ; 
maybe    madness    like   a   frieiid    has 
thrown 

A  folded  fillet  over  my  dark  mind, 
So   that   unkindly  speech  may    sound    for 
kind, — 

•  Albeit  I  know  not.  —  I  am  childish  grown, 
I  And  have  not  gold  to  purchase  wit  withal, 
I  I   that  have   once   maintain'd  most   royal 

state, 

I  A  very  bankrupt  now  that  may  not  call 
K  My  child,  my  child  —  all-beggar'd  save  in 

tears, 

•  Wherewith   I   daily    weep   an   old   man's 

fate, 

I  Foolish  —  and  blind  —  and  overcome  with 
years  ! 


BALLAD 

SPRING  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary, 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly  ; 

When  he  's  forsaken, 

Wither'd  and  shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him, 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
[  Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

June  it  was  jolly, 
O  for  its  folly  1 

dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  ; 
Youth  may  be  silly, 
Wisdom  is  chilly, 
can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Friends  they  are  scanty, 

Beggars  are  plenty, 
If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why  ; 

Gold  's  in  his  clutches, 

(Buying  him  crutches  !) 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


FROM  "MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND 

HER   PRJXIOUS   LI 

HER  DEATH 

T  is  a  stern  and  startling  thing  to  think 
How  often  mortality  stands  on  the  brink 

Of  its  £rave  without  any  misgiving  : 
And  yet  in  this  slippery  world  of  strife, 
In  the  stir  of  human  bustle  so  rife, 
There  are  daily  sounds  to  tell  us  thai  Life 

Is  dying,  and  Death  is  living  ! 

Ay,  Beauty  the  Girl,  and  Love  the  Boy, 
Bright  as  they  are  with  hope  and  joy, 

How  their  souls  would  sadden  instanter. 
To  remember  that  one  of  those  wedding 

bells, 

Which  ring  so  merrily  through  the  dells, 
Is  the  same  that  knells 
Our  last  farewells, 
Only  broken  into  a  canter  I 

But  breath  and  blood  set  doom  at  nought  : 
How  little  the  wretched  Countess  thought, 

When  at  night  she  unloos'd  her  sandal. 
That  the  Fates  had  woven  her  burial  cloth, 
And  that  Death,  in  the  shape  of  a  Death's 
Head  Moth, 

Was  fluttering  round  her  caudle  ! 

As  she  look'd  at  her  clock  of  or-molu, 
For   the   hours  she   had  gone  so  wearily 
through 

At  the  end  of  a  day  of  trial, 
How  little  she  saw  in  her  pride  of  prime 
The  dart  of  Death  in  the  Hand  of  Time  — 

That  hand  which  mov'd  on  the  dial  ! 

As  she  went  with  her  taper  up  the  stair, 
How  little  her  swollen  eve  was  aware 

That  the   Shadow  which  followed   waa 

double  ! 

Or  when  she  clos'd  her  chamber  door, 
It  was  shutting  out,  and  for  evermore, 

The  world  —  and  its  worldly  trouble. 

Little  she  dreamt,  aa  she  laid  aside 
Her  jewels,  after  one  glance  of  pride, 

They  were  solemn  bequests  to  Vanity  ; 
Or  when  her  robes  she  began  to  doff 
That  she  stood  so  near  to  the  putting  off 

Of  the  flesh  that  clothes  humanity. 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


And  when  she  quench'd  the  taper's  light, 
How  little  she  thought,  as  the  smoke  took 

flight, 
That  her  day  was  done  —  and  merged  in  a 

night 

Of  dreams  and  durations  uncertain, 
Or,  along  with  her  own, 
That  a  Hand  of  Bone 
Was  closing  mortality's  curtain  ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  and  mortality  blind, 
And  youth  is  hopeful,  and  Fate  is  kind 

In  concealing  the  day  of  sorrow  ; 
And  enough  is  the  present  tense  of  toil, 
For  this  world  is  to  all  a  stiffish  soil, 
And  the  mind  flies  Lack  with  a  glad  recoil 

From  the  debts  not  due  till  to-morrow. 

Wherefore  else  does  the  spirit  fly 
And  bids  its  daily  cares  good-bye, 

Along  with  its  daily  clothing  ? 
Just  as  the  felon  condemn'd  to  die, 

With  a  very  natural  loathing, 
Leaving  the  Sheriff  to  dream  of  ropes, 
From  his  gloomy  cell  in  a  vision  elopes 
To  caper  on  sunny  greens  and  slopes, 

Instead  of  the  dance  upon  nothing. 

Thus,  even  thus,  the  Countess  slept, 
While  Death  still  nearer  and  nearer  crept, 
Like  the  Thane  who  smote  the  sleeping  ; 
But  her  mind  was  busy  with  early  joys, 
Her  golden  treasures  and  golden  toys, 
That  flash'd  a  bright 
And  golden  light 
Under  lids  still  red  with  weeping. 

The  golden  doll  that  she  used  to  hug  ! 
Her  coral  of  gold,  and  the  golden  mug  ! 

Her  godfather's  golden  presents  ! 
The  golden  service  she  had  at  her  meals, 
The  golden  watch,  and  chain,  and  seals, 
Her  golden  scissors,  and  thread,  and  reels, 

And  her  golden  fishes  and  pheasants! 

The  golden  guineas  in  silken  purse, 

And  the  Golden  Legends  she  heard  from 

her  nurse, 

Of  the  Mayor  in  his  gilded  carriage, 
And  London  streets  that  were  pav'd  with 

gold, 

And  the  Golden  Eggs  that  were  laid  of  old, 
With  each  golden  thing 
To  the  golden  ring 
At  her  own  auriferous  Marriage  ! 


And  still  the  golden  light  of  the  sun 
Through  her  golden  dream  appear'd  to  run, 
Though  the  night  that  roar'd  without  was 
one 

To  terrify  seamen  or  gypsies, 
While  the  moon,  as  if  in  malicious  mirth, 
Kept  peeping  down  at  the  ruffled  earth, 
As  though  she  enjoy'd  the  tempest's  birth, 

In  revenge  of  her  old  eclipses. 

But  vainly,  vainly,  the  thunder  fell, 

For  the  soul  of  the  Sleeper  was  under  a  spell 

That  time  had  lately  embitter'd  : 
The  Count,  as  once  at  her  foot  he  knelt  — 
That  foot  which  now  he  wanted  to  melt ! 
But  —  hush  !  —  't  was  a  stir  at  her  pillow 
she  felt, 

And  some  object  before  her  glitter'd. 

'T  was  the  Golden   Leg  !  —  she   knew   its 

gleam  ! 
And  up  she  started,  and  tried  to  scream,  — 

But,  ev'n  in  the  moment  she  started, 
Down  came  the  limb  with  a  frightful  smash. 
And,  lost  in  the  universal  flash 
That  her  eyeballs  made  at  so  mortal  a  crash, 

The  Spark,  call'd  Vital,  departed  ! 

Gold,  still  gold  !  hard,  yellow,  and  cold, 
For  gold  she   had  liv'd,  and  she  died  fo* 
gold, 

By  a  golden  weapon  —  not  oaken  ; 
In  the  morning  they  found  her  all  alone  — • 
Stiff,  and  bloody,  and  cold  as  stone  — 
But  her  Leg,  the  Golden  Leg,  was  gone, 

And  the  "  Golden  Bowl  was  broken  !  " 

Gold—  still  gold  !  it  haunted  her  yet : 
At  the  Golden  Lion  the  Inquest  met  — 

Its  foreman  a  carver  and  gilder, 
And  the  Jury  debated  from  twelve  till  three 
What  the  Verdict  ought  to  be, 
And  they  brought  it  in  as  Felo-de-Se, 

"  Because  her  own  Leg  had  kill'd  her ! " 

HER   MORAL 

Gold  !    Gold  !    Gold  !    Gold  ! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammer'd,  and  roll'd  ; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold  ; 
Hoarded,  barter'd,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrow'd,  squander'd,  doled  : 
Spurn'd  by  the  young,  but  hugg'd  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard  mould ; 


THOMAS    HOOD 


119 


Price  of  many  a  crime  untold  ; 
Gold  !  Gold  !  Gold  !  Gold  ! 
Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary  : 
To  save  —  to  ruin  —  to  curse  —  to  bless  — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamp' d  with  the  image  of  Good  Queen 
Bess, 

And  now  of  a  bloody  Mary. 

RUTH 

SHE  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripen'd  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  : 

Sure,  I  said,  heav'n  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean, 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

THE   WATER   LADY 

ALAS,  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  ! 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair  was  she  t 

I  stayed  awhile,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

I  stayed  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore  in  place  of  red 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 


I  stayed  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing  ; 
The  waters  clos'd  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 

And  still  I  stayed  a  little  more  : 
Alas,  she  never  comes  again  ! 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine, 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she 's  divine  I 


ODE 

AUTUMN 


I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  moir 
Stand  shadowless,  like  silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ;  — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 


ii 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ?  —  With 

the  sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  south, 
Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 
And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous 

mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  ?  — Away,  away, 
On  panting  wiugs  through  the  inclement 

skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 
Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustroui 
eyes. 

Ill 

Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer?— IB 

the  west, 

Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is 

prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatch'd  from  her 

flow'rs 
To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 


120 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer,  —  the  green 

prime,  — 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ?  — 

Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm  ;  three  on  the  naked 

lime 
Trembling, — and   one  upon  the  old   oak 

tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  ?  — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  through 
In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 


IV 


The   squirrel   gloats   on  his   accomplish'd 

hoard, 
The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with 

ripe  grain, 

And  honey  bees  have  stor'd 
The  sweets  of  Summer  in  their  luscious 

cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the 

main  ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 
Alone,  alone, 
Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She   sits   and   reckons    up   the    dead   and 

gone 

With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far  away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the 

last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 


O  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair  : 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  wither'd  everywhere 
To   make    her    bower,  — and    enough    of 

gloom  ; 

There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the   rose   that   died,  — whose 

doom 

Is  Beauty's,  —  she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious   cheeks   most  beautifies   the 

light  ;  - 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 


Enough   of   bitter   fruits   the    earth    doth;i 

bear,  — 
Enough     of     chilly     droppings      for     her 

bowl  ; 

Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair, 
To    frame     her    cloudy    prison     for    the 

soul  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  «  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 

"  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof  ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof  ! 
It 's  Oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim. 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ' 

"  Oh,  Men,  with  Sisters  dear  ! 

Oh,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  ? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
Oh,  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 


THOMAS   HOOD 


121 


*'  Work  —  work  —  work  1 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shatter'd  roof  —  and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table — a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  t hank 

For  sometimes  falling  there. 

«  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 
From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

Work  —  work  —  work  — 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till   the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be- 
numb'd, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work  —  work  —  work, 
In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright, 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

«  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet, 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal, 

"  Oh,  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief  ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief  ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  iny  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Lnd  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
"rould  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich  ! 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 


THE   LAY  OF  THE   LABORER 

A  SPADE  !  a  rake  t  a  hoe  ( 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will, 
And  here  's  a  ready  hand 

To  ply  the  needful  tool, 
And  skill'd  enough,  by  lessons  rough, 

In  Labor's  rugged  school. 

To  hedge,  or  dig  the  ditch, 

To  lop  or  fell  the  tree, 
To  lay  the  s wart  h  on  the  sultry  field, 

Or  plough  the  stubborn  lea  ; 
The  harvest  stack  to  bind, 

The  wheaten  rick  to.  thatch, 
And  never  fear  in  my  pouch  to  find 

The  tinder  or  the  match. 

To  a  flaming  barn  or  farm 

My  fancies  never  roam  ; 
The  fire  I  yearn  to  kindle  and  burn 

Is  on  the  hearth  of  Home  ; 
Where  children  huddle  and  crouch 

Through  dark  long  winter  days, 
Where  starving  children  huddle  and  crouch, 

To  see  the  cheerful  rays 
A-glowing  on  the  haggard  cheek, 

And  not  in  the  haggard's  blaze  ! 

To  Him  who  sends  a  drought 

To  parch  the  fields  forlorn, 
The  rain  to  flood  the  meadows  with  mud, 

The  blight  to  blast  the  corn, 
To  Him  I  leave  to  guide 

The  bolt  in  its  crooked  path, 
To  strike  the  miser's  rick,  and  show 

The  skies  blood-red  with  wrath. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill  ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will ; 
The  corn  to  thrash,  or  the  hedge  to  plash, 

The  market-team  to  drive, 
Or  mend  the  fence  by  the  cover  side, 

And  leave  the  game  alive. 

Ay,  only  give  me  work, 

And  then  you  need  not  fear 
That  I  shall  snare  his  worship's  hare, 

Or  kill  his  grace's  deer  ; 
Break  into  his  lordship's  house, 

To  steal  the  plate  so  rich  ; 


122 


POETS   OF   THE    NEW   DAY 


Or  leave  the  yeoman  that  had  a  purse 
To  welter  in  a  ditch. 

Wherever  Nature  needs, 

Wherever  Labor  calls, 
No  job  I  '11  shirk  of  the  hardest  work, 

To  shun  the  workhouse  walls  ; 
Where  savage  laws  begrudge 

The  pauper  babe  its  breath, 
And  doom  a  wife  to  a  widow's  life, 

Before  her  partner's  death. 

My  only  claim  is  this, 

With  labor  stiff  and  stark, 
By  lawful  turn  my  living  to  earn 

Between  the  light  and  dark  ; 
My  daily  bread,  and  nightly  bed, 

My  bacon  and  drop  of  beer  — 
But  all  from  the  hand  that  holds  the  land, 

And  none  from  the  overseer  ! 

No  parish  money,  or  loaf, 

No  pauper  badges  for  me, 
A  son  of  the  soil,  by  right  of  toil 

Entitled  to  my  fee. 
No  alms  I  ask,  give  me  my  task  : 

Here  are  the  arm,  the  leg, 
The  strength,  the  sinews  of  a  Man, 

To  work,  and  not  to  beg. 

Still  one  of  Adam's  heirs, 

Though  doom'd  by  chance  of  birth 
To  dress  so  mean,  and  to  eat  the  lean 

Instead  of  the  fat  of  the  earth  ; 
To  make  such  humble  meals 

As  honest  labor  can, 
A  bone  and  a  crust,  with  a  grace  to  God, 

And  little  thanks  to  man  ! 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will ; 
Whatever  the  tool  to  ply, 

Here  is  a  willing  drudge, 
With  muscle  and  limb,  and  woe  to  him 

Who  does  their  pay  begrudge  ! 

Who  every  weekly  score 

Docks  labor's  little  mite, 
Bestows  on  the  poor  at  the  temple-door, 

But  robb'd  them  over  night. 
The  very  shilling  he  hop'd  to  save, 

As  health  and  morals  fail, 
Shall  visit  me  in  the  New  Bastile, 

The  Spital  or  the  Gaol ! 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS 

ONE  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly  ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutif  id  : 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !  it  was  pitiful  ! 


HOOD-SIMMONS 


Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed  : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver, 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd  — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran,  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 


Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contumely,       . 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest, 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast. 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  I 


STANZAS 

FAREWELL,  Life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  wprld  is  growing  dim  ; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night ; 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still,. 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows  — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ( 

Welcome,  Life  !  the  Spirit  strives  I 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn  ; 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold  — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  I 


25artl)olomcto 


JTANZAS   TO   THE  MEMORY   OF 
THOMAS   HOOD 

TAKE  back  into  thy  bosonc,  earth, 
This  joyous,  May-eyed  morrow, 


The  gentlest  child  that  evei  mirth 
Gave  to  be  rear'd  by  sorrow  ! 

'Tis  hard— while   rays   half  green, 

gold, 
Through  vernal  bowers  are  burning, 


half 


124 


POETS    OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


And  streams  their  diamond-mirrors  hold 
To  summer's  face  returning  — 

To  say  we  're  thankful  that  his  sleep 
Shall  never  more  be  lighter, 

In  whose  sweet-tongued  companionship 
Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grew  brighter  ! 

But  all  the  more  intensely  true 

His  soul  gave  out  each  feature 
Of  elemental  love  —  each  hue 

And  grace  of  golden  nature  ; 
The  deeper  still  beneath  it  all 

Lurk'd  the  keen  jags  of  anguish  ; 
The  more  the  laurels  clasp'd  his  brow 

Their  poison  made  it  languish. 
Seem'd  it  that  like  the  nightingale 

Of  his  own  mournful  singing, 
The  tenderer  would  his  song  prevail 

While  most  the  thorn  was  stinging. 

So  never  to  the  desert-worn 

Did  fount  bring  freshness  deeper, 
Than  that  his  placid  rest  this  morn 

Has  brought  the  shrouded  sleeper. 
That  rest  may  lap  his  weary  head 

Where  charnels  choke  the  city, 
Or  where,  mid  woodlands,  by  his  bed 

The  wren  shall  wake  its  ditty  ; 
But  near  or  far,  while  evening's  star 

Is  dear  to  hearts  regretting, 
Around  that  spot  admiring  thought 

Shall  hover,  unforgetting. 

And  if  this  sentient,  seething  world 

Is,  after  all,  ideal, 
Or  in  the  immaterial  furl'd 

Alone  resides  the  real, 
Freed  one  !   there  's  a  wail  for  thee  this 
hour 

Through  thy  lov'd  elves'  dominions  ; 
Hush'd  is  each  tiny  trumpet-flower, 

And  droopeth  Ariel's  pinions  ; 
Even  Puck,  dejected,  leaves  his  swing, 

To  plan,  with  fond  endeavor, 
What  pretty  buds  and  dews  shall  keep 

Thy  pillow  bright  for  ever. 

And  higher,  if  less  happy,  tribes, 
The  race  of  early  childhood, 


Shall  miss  thy  whims  of  frolic  wit, 

That  in  the  summer  wild-wood, 
Or  by  the  Christmas  hearth,  were  hail'd, 

And  hoarded  as  a  treasure 
Of  undecaying  merriment 

And  ever-changing  pleasure. 
Things  from  thy  lavish  humor  flung 

Profuse  as  scents,  are  flying 
This  kindling  morn,  when  blooms  are  born 

As  fast  as  blooms  are  dying. 

Sublimer  art  owned  thy  control  : 

The  minstrel's  mightiest  magic, 
With  sadness  to  subdue  the  soul, 

Or  thrill  it  with  the  tragic. 
Now  listening  Aram's  fearful  dream, 

We  see  beneath  the  willow 
That  dreadful  thing,  or  watch  him  steal, 

Guilt-lighted,  to  his  pillow. 
Now  with  thee  roaming  ancient  groves, 

We  watch  the  woodman  felling 
The  funeral  elm,  while  through  its  boughs 

The  ghostly  wind  comes  knelling. 

Dear  worshipper  of  Dian's  face 

In  solitary  places, 
Shali  thou  no  more  steal,  as  of  yore, 

To  meet  her  white  embraces  ? 
Is  there  no  purple  in  the  rose 

Henceforward  to  thy  senses  ? 
For  thee  have  dawn  and  daylight's  close 

Lost  their  sweet  influences  ? 
No  !  —  by  the  mental  night  untam'd 

Thou  took'st  to  death's  dark  portal, 
The  joy  of  the  wide  universe 

Is  now  to  thee  immortal ! 

How  fierce  contrasts  the  city's  roar 

With  thy  new-conquer'd  quiet !  — 
This  stunning  hell  of  wheels  that  pour 

With  princes  to  their  riot  ! 
Loud  clash  the  crowds  —  the  busy  clouds 

With  thunder-noise  are  shaken, 
While  pale,  and  mute,  and  cold,  afar 

Thou  liest,  men-forsaken. 
Hot  life  reeks  on,  nor  recks  that  one  — 

The  playful,  human-hearted  — 
Who  lent  its  clay  less  earthiness, 

Is  just  from  earth  departed. 


H.   MARTINEAU— BLANCH ARD 


Harriet  apartincau 


ON,   ON,    FOREVER 

BENEATH  this  starry  arch 

Nought  resteth  or  is  still  ; 
But  all  things  hold  their  march, 

As  if  by  one  great  will  : 
Moves  one,  move  all :  hark  to  the  foot-fall ! 
On,  on,  forever  I 

Yon  sheaves  were  once  but  seed  ; 
Will  ripens  into  deed  ; 
As  cave-drops  swell  the  streams, 
Day-thoughts  feed  nightly  dreams  ; 
And  sorrow  tracketh  wrong, 
As  echo  follows  song  : 
On,  on,  forever ! 


By  night,  like  stars  on  high, 

The  Hours  reveal  their  train  ; 
They  whisper  and  go  by  : 

I  never  watch  in  vain. 
Moves  one,  move  all :  hark  to  the  foot 
fall  ! 
On,  on,  forever ! 

They  pass  the  cradle-head, 
And  there  a  promise  shed ; 
They  pass  the  moist  new  grave, 
And  bid  rank  verdure  wave  ; 
They  bear  through  every  clime 
The  harvests  of  all  time. 
On,  on,  forever  ! 


Xaman  SManrftarfc 


NELL   GWYNNE'S   LOOKING- 
GLASS 

J8  antique,  'twixt  thee  and  Nell 

iw  we  here  a  parallel, 
like  thee,  was  forced  to  bear 

reflections,  foul  or  fair. 
Thou  art  deep  and  bright  within, 
Depths  as  bright  belong'd  to  Gwynne  ; 
Thou  art  very  frail  as  well, 
Frail  as  flesh  is,  —  so  was  Nell. 

Thou,  her  glass,  art  silver-lin'd, 

Sin-  too,  had  a  silver  mind  : 

Thine  is  fresh  till  this  far  day, 

Hers  till  death  ne'er  wore  away  : 
Thou  dost  to  thy  surface  win 
Wandering  glances,  so  did  Gwynne  ; 
Eyes  on  thee  long  love  to  dwell, 
So  men's  eyes  would  do  on  Nell. 

Life-like  forms  in  thee  are  sought, 
Such  the  forms  the  actress  wrought ; 
Truth  unfailing  rests  in  you, 
Nell,  whate'er  she  was,  was  true. 
Clear  as  virtue,  dull  as  sin, 
Thou  art  oft,  as  oft  was  Gwynne  ; 
Breathe  ou  thee,  and  drops  will  swell  : 
Bright  tears  dimm'd  the  eyes  of  Nell. 


Thine  's  a  frame  to  charm  the  sight, 

Frain'd  was  she  to  give  delight, 

Waxen  forms  here  truly  show 

Charles  above  and  Nell  below  ; 

But  between  them,  chin  with  chin, 
Stuart  stands  as  low  as  Gwynne,  — 
Paired,  yet  parted,  —  meant  to  tell 
Charles  was  opposite  to  Nell. 

Round  the  glass  wherein  her  face 

Smil'd  so  oft,  her  "  arms  "  we  trace  ; 

Thou,  her  mirror,  hast  the  pair, 

Lion  here,  and  leopard  there. 

She  had  part  in  these,  —  akin 
To  the  lion-heart  was  Gwynno  ; 
And  the  leopard's  beauty  fell 
With  its  spots  to  bounding  NelL 

Oft  inspected,  ne'er  seen  through, 

Thou  art  firm,  if  brittle  too  ; 

So  her  will,  on  good  intent, 

Might  be  broken,  never  bent. 

What  the  glass  was,  when  therein 
Beam'd  the  face  of  glad  Nell  Gwynn^ 
Was  that  face  by  beauty's  spell 
To  the  honest  soul  of  Nell. 


126 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


HIDDEN   JOYS 

PLEASURES  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures 

seem  : 

There  's  not  a  leaf  that  falls  upon  the  ground 
But  holds  some  joy,  of  silence,  or^  of  sound, 
Some  sprite  begotten  of  a  summer  dream. 
The  very  meanest  things  are  made  supreme 
With  innate  ecstacy.     No  grain  of  sand 
But  moves  a   bright   and  million-peopled 

land, 
And  hath  its  Edeus  and  its  Eves,  I  deem. 


For  Love,  though  blind  himself,  a  curious 

eye 
Hath    lent   me,  to   behold    the  hearts   of 

things, 
And  touch'd  mine  ear  with  power.     Thus, 

far  or  nigh, 
Minute    or    mighty,    fix'd    or    free    with 

wings, 
Delight   from    many    a    nameless    covert 

sly 
Peeps   sparkling,    and    in    tones    familiar 

sings. 


THE   NET-BRAIDERS 

WITHIN  a  low-thatch'd  hut,  built  in  a  lane 
Whose  narrow  pathway  tendeth  toward 

the  ocean, 

A  solitude  which,  save  of  some  rude  swain 
Or  fisherman,  doth  scarce  know  human 

motion  — 
Or  of  some  silent  poet,  to  the  main 

Straying,  to  offer  infinite  devotion 
To  God,  in  the  free  universe  —  there  dwelt 
Two  women  old,  to  whom  small  store  was 
dealt 

Of  the   world's   misnam'd   good :   mother 

and  child, 
Both  aged  and  mateless.     These  two  life 

sustain'd 

By  braiding  fishing-nets  ;  and  so  beguiPd 
Time  and  their  cares,  and  little  e'er  com- 

plain'd 

Of  Fate  or  Providence  :  resign'd  and  mild, 
Whilst  day  by  day,  for  years,  their. hour 
glass  rain'd 

Its  trickling  sand,  to  track  the  wing  of  time, 
They  toil'd  in  peace  ;  and  much  there  was 
sublime 

ID  their  obscure  contentment  :  of  mankind 
They  little  knew,  or  reck'd  ;  but  for  their 

being 
They  bless'd  their  Maker,  with  a  simple 

mind  ; 

And   in   the   constant  gaze   of    his  all- 
seeing 

Eye,  to  his  poorest  creatures  never  blind, 
Deeming   they   dwelt,   they   bore    their 
sorrows  Heeing, 


Glad  still  to  live,  but  not  afraid  to  die, 
In  calm  expectance  of  Eternity. 

And  since  I  first  did  greet  those  braiders 

poor, 

If  ever  I  behold  fair  women's  cheeks 
Sin-pale    in    stately   mansions,  where    the 

door 
Is  shut  to  all  but  pride,  my  cleft  heart 

seeks         ^ 
For  refuge  in  my  thoughts,  which  then  ex 
plore 
That  pathway  lone  near  which  the  wild 

sea  breaks, 

And  to  Imagination's  humble  eyes 
That  hut,  with  all  its  want,  is  Paradise  ! 

BIRTH   AND   DEATH 

METHINKS  the  soul  within  the  body  held 
Is  as  a  little  babe  within  the  womb, 
Which  flutters  in  its  antenatal  tomb, 
But  stirs  and  heaves  the  prison  where  't  is 

cell'd, 
And  struggles  in  strange  darkness,  undis- 

pell'd 
By  all  its  strivings  towards  the  breath  and 

bloom 

Of  that  aurorean  being  soon  to  come  — 
Strivings  of  feebleness,  by  nothing  quell'd  :i 
And    even   as    birth    to    the   enfranchis'd 

child, 
Which  shows   to  its   sweet  senses  all  the 

vast 

Of  beauty  visible  and  audible, 
Is  death  unto  the  spirit  undefil'd  ; 
Setting  it  free  of  limit,  and  the  past, 
And  all  that  in  its  prison-house  befell. 


COOPER  — SARAH   F.   ADAMS 


127 


CHARTIST   SONG 

THE  time  shall  come  when  wrong  shall  end, 
When  peasant  to  peer  no  more  shall  bend  ; 
When  the  lordly  Few  shall  lose  their  sway, 
And  the  Many  no  more  their  frown  obey. 
Toil,    brothers,   toil,    till    the    work    is 

done, 

Till  the  struggle  is  o'er,  and  the  Charter 
won ! 

The  time  shall  come  when  the  artisan 
Shall  homage  no  more  the  titled  man  ; 
When  the  moiling  men  who  delve  the  mine 
By  Mammon's  decree  no  more  shall  pine. 
Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  work  is  done, 
Till  the  struggle  is  o'er,  and  the  Charter 
won. 

The  time  shall  come  when  the  weavers' 

band 

Shall  hunger  no  more  in  their  fatherland  ; 
When  the  factory-child  can  sleep  till  day, 
And  smile  while  it  dreams  of  sport  and 

play. 


Cooper 

Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  work  is  done, 
Till  the  struggle  is  o'er,  and  the  Charter 


The  time  shall  come  when  Man  shall  hold 
His  brother  more  dear  than  sordid  gold  ; 
When  the  negro's  stain  his  freebom  mind 
Shall  sever  no  more  from  human-kind. 
Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  world  is  free, 
Till  Justice  and  Love  hold  jubilee. 

The  time  shall  come  when  kingly  crown 
And  mitre  for  toys  of  the  past  are  shown  ; 
When  the  fierce  and  false  alike  shall  fall, 
And  mercy  and  truth  encircle  all. 

Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  world  is  free, 
Till  Mercy  and  Truth  hold  jubilee  ! 

The  time  shall  come  when  earth  shall  be 

A  garden  of  joy,  from  sea  to  sea, 

When  the  slaughterous  sword  is  drawn  no 

more, 

And  goodness  exults  from  shore  to  shore. 
Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  world  is  free, 
Till  goodness  shall  hold  high  jubilee  ! 


f  lotoet 


HYMN 

HE  sendeth  sun,  he  sendeth  shower, 
Alike  they  're  needful  for  the  flower  : 
And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 
As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 
Father  1  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 

Can  loving  children  e'er  reprove 

With  murmurs  whom  they  trust  and  love  ? 

Creator  !  I  would  ever  be 

A  trusting,  loving  child  to  thee  : 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 

Father  !  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 

Oh,  ne'er  will  I  at  life  repine  : 
Enough  that  thou  hast  made  it  mine. 
When  falls  the  shadow  cold  of  death 
I  yet  will  sing,  with  parting  breath, 
As  comes  to  me  or  shade  or  sun. 
Father  !  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 


LOVE 

O  LOVE  !  thou  makest  all  things  even 

In  earth  or  heaven  ; 
Finding  thy  way  through  prison-bars 

Up  to  the  stars  ; 
Or,  true  to  the  Almighty  plan, 
That  out  of  dust  created  man, 
Thou  lookest  in  a  grave,  —  to  see 

Thine  immortality  t 

NEARER  TO   THEE 

NEARER,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me  ; 
Still  all  my  sou*  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 


128 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


Though  like  the  wanderer, 
The  sun  gone  down, 

Darkness  be  over  me, 
My  rest  a  stone  ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  heaven  ; 

All  that  thou  send'st  to  me 
In  mercy  given  ; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 


Then,  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I  '11  raise  ; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

'  Upward  I  fly, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 


25totoning 


THE   CRY   OF  THE   CHILDREN 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my 

brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against 

their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  mead 
ows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are   playing   with    the 

shadows, 
The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward 

the  west  : 
But    the   young,   young   children,   O    my 

brothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the 

others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the 

sorrow 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago  ; 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost : 
But    the   young,   young   children,   O    my 

brothers, 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 


Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  theii 

mothers, 
In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 

faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws   and 

presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy  ; 
"  Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary, 
Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "are   very 

weak  ; 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary  — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  : 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 

children, 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold, 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 

bewildering, 
And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"  True,"  say  the  children,  "  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time  : 
Little  Alice  died  last  year,  her  grave  ia 

shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take 

her  : 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 

clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will 

wake  her, 
Crying,  « Get  up,  little  Alice  !  it  is  day.* 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING 


129 


If  you  listen  by   that  grave,  in  sun  and 

shower, 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 

cries  : 
|    Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should 

not  know  her, 
For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in  her 

eyes  : 
And  merry  go   her   moments,  lull'd   and 

still'd  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime, 
is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  chil 
dren, 
"  That  we  die  before  our  time." 

alas,  the  children  !  they  are  seeking 
Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have  : 
3y  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from 

breaking, 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from 

the  city, 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 

do; 

luck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cow 
slips  pretty, 
Laugh   aloud,  to   feel  your  fingers   let 

them  through  ! 
hit  they  answer,  "Are  your  cowslips  of 

"  the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
ive  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal- 
shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 

For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap  ; 
we  car'd  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep, 
ir  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 
We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go  ; 
1,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  droop 
ing. 
The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as 

snow. 
>r,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground, 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 
In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

*  For  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turn- 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads  with  pulses 

burning, 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places  : 


Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and 

reeling, 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown  the 

wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 

ceiling, 
All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with 

all. 
And  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  O  ye  wheels,'  (breaking  out  in  a  mad 

moaning) 
'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  ! ' " 

Ay,  be  silent  i     Let  them  hear  each  other 

breathing 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ! 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a 

fresh  wreathing 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  I 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  reveals  : 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against 

the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O 

wheels  ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark  ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  call 
ing  sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my 

brothers, 

To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray  ; 
So  the  blessed  One  who  blesseth  all  the 

others, 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "  Who  is  God  that  lie  should 

hear  us, 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  it 

stirr'd  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 

near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a 

word.         • 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their 

resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door : 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 

Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

"Two  words,  indeed,  of   praying  we   re 
member, 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


« Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  cham 
ber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know  no   other  words   except   *  Our 

Father,' 
And  we  think   that,  in  some   pause   of 

angels'  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet 

to  gather, 
And  hold  both  within  His   right   hand 

which  is  strong. 
« Our  Father  ! '     If  He  heard  us,  He  would 

surely 

(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very 

purely, 
*  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child/ 

"  But,    no  ! "   say   the    children,    weeping 

faster, 

"  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone  : 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !  "  say  the  children,  —  "  up  in  heaven, 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all 

we  find. 

Do  not  mock  us  ;  grief  has  made  us  unbe 
lieving  : 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made 

us  blind." 

Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  dis 
proving, 

O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's 

loving, 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the 

glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its 

wisdom  ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its 

calm  ;  • 

Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom, 
Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the 

palm  : 

Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 
The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot 

reap,  — 

Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heav 
enly. 
Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 


They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 

faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see, 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 

places, 

With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 
"  How  long,"  they  say,  "  how  long,  O  cruel 

nation, 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  3 

child's  heart,  — 

Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its   palpita 
tion, 
And  tread  onward  tt  your  throne  amid 

the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold-heaper, 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses 

deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath." 

MY   HEART   AND    I 

ENOUGH  !  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  sit  beside  the  headstone  thus, 
And  wish  that  name  were  carv'd  for  us. 

The  moss  reprints  more  tenderly 

The  hard  types  of  the  mason's  knife, 
As  Heaven's  sweet  life  renews  earth's  life 

With  which  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

You  see  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  dealt  with  books,  we  trusted  men, 
And  in  our  own  blood  drench'd  the  pen, 

As  if  such  colors  could  not  fly. 

We  walk'd  too  straight  for  fortune's  end, 
We  lov'd  too  true  to  keep  a  friend  ; 

At  last  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

How  tired  we  feel,  my  heart  and  I  ! 

We  seem  of  no  use  in  the  world  ; 

Our  fancies  hang  gray  and  uncurl'd 
About  men's  eyes  indifferently  ; 

Our  voice  which  thrill'd  you  so,  will  let 

You  sleep  ;  our  tears  are  only  wet : 
What  do  we  here,  my  heart  and  I  ? 

So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I ! 

It  was  not  thus  in  that  old  time 

When  Ralph  sat  with  me  'neath  the  lime 
To  watch  the  sunset  from  the  sky. 

"  Dear  love,  you  're  looking  tired,"   he 
said  : 

I,  smiling  at  him,  shook  my  head. 
'T  is  now  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING 


So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I  ! 

Though  now  none  takes  me  on  his  arm 
To  fold  me  close  and  kiss  me  warm 

jTill  each  quick  breath  end  in  a  sigh 
Of  happy  languor.     Now,  alone, 
We  lean  upon  this  graveyard  stone, 

lUncheer'd,  unkiss'd,  my  heart  and  I. 

Tirt-d  out  we  are,  my  heart  and  I. 
Suppose  the  world  brought  diadems 
To  tempt  us,  crusted  with  loose  gems 

Of  powers  and  pleasures  ?     Let  it  try. 
We  scarcely  care  to  look  at  even 
A  pretty  child,  or  God's  blue  heaven, 

We  feel  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

ret  who  complains  ?     My  heart  and  I  ? 
In  this  abundant  earth  no  doubt 
Is  little  room  for  things  worn  out : 

lain  them,  break  them,  throw  them  by  ! 
And  if  before  the  days  grew  rough 
We  once  were  lov'd,  us'd,  —  well  enough, 
think,  we  've  far'd,  my  heart  and  I. 

iNNETS    FROM    THE    PORTU 
GUESE 


THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wish'd- 

f or  years, 

each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 
1,  as  I  mus'd  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
sweet,*sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 
» of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was 

'ware, 

weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
lind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the 
hair  ; 

L   voice    said    in   mastery,    while    I 
strove,  — 
«*  Guess  now  who  holds  thee  !  "  —  "  Death," 

I  said.     But,  there, 

The  silver  answer  rang  —  "  Not  Death,  but 
Love." 

IV 

THOU  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor, 
Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems  1  where 
The  dancers  will  break  footing, from  the  care 
Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for  more. 


And  dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch  too  poor 
For  hand  of  thine  ?  and  canst  thou  think 

and  bear 

To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 
In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  my  door  ? 
Look  up  and  see  the  casement  broken  in, 
The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the  roof  I 
My  cricket  chirps  against  thy  mandolin. 
Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 
Of  desolation  !  there 's  a  voice  within 
That  weeps  ...  as  thou  must  sing  .  .  . 

alone,  aloof. 


I  LIFT  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly, 
As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn, 
And,  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  overturn 
The  ashes  at  thy  feet.     Behold  and  see 
What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in  me, 
And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly  barn 
Through  the  ashen  grayuess.     If  thy  foot 

in  scorn 

Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness  utterly, 
It  might  be  well  perhaps.  But  if  instead 
Thou  wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to  blow 
The  gray  dust  up,  ...  those  laurels  on 

thine  head, 

O  my  Beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 
That  none  of  all  the  fires  shall  scorch  and 

shred 
The  hair  beneath.     Stand  further  off  then  ! 

go  ! 

VI 

Go  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  fore- 
bore  — 
Thy   touch  upon  the  palm.      The  widest 

land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in 

mine 

With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And   what   I  dream  include  thee,  as  the 

wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  1 

sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of 

thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 


I32 


POETS    OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


IX 

CAN  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give  ? 
To  let  thee  sit  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 
As  salt  as  mine,  and  hear  the  sighing  years 
Re-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 
Through  those  infrequent  smiles  which  fail 

to  live 

For  all  thy  adjurations  ?     O  my  fears, 
That  this  can  scarce  be  right  !     We  are  not 

peers 

So  to  be  lovers  ;  and  I  own,  and  grieve, 
That  givers  of  such  gifts  as  mine  are,  must 
Be  counted  with  the  ungenerous.    Out,  alas  ! 
I  will  not  soil  thy  purple  with  my  dust, 
Nor  breathe  my  poison  on  thy  Venice-glass, 
Nor  give  thee  any  love  —  which  were  unjust. 
Beloved,  I  only  love  thee  !  let  it  pass. 

XVIII 

I  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 
I   ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and 

say 

"Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yester 
day  ; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee, 
Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more  :  it  only  may 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark  of 

tears, 
Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs 

aside 
Through   sorrow's   trick.      I   thought   the 

funeral-shears 

Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justi 
fied,— 
Take  it  thou,  —  finding  pure,  from  all  those 

years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 

XX 

BELOVED,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 
What  time  I  sat  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  silence 

sink 

No  moment  at  thy  voice,  but,  link  by  link, 
Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that  so 
They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand,  —  why,  thus  I 

drink 


Of  life's  great  cup  of  wonder  !     Wonderful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night 
With  personal  act  or  speech,  —  nor  ever 

cull 
Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms 

white 
Thou   sawest   growing !      Atheists   are   as 

dull, 
Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of 

sight. 

XXII 

WHEN  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and 

strong, 
Face   to    face,   silent,   drawing  nigh    and 

nigher, 

Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point,  —  what-  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not 

long 
Be  here  contented  ?    Think  !    In  mounting 

higher, 

The  angels  would  press  on  us  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved,  —  where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding 

it. 

XXIII 

Is  it  indeed  so  ?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing  mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly 

shine 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my 

head? 

I  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I  am  thine  — 
But  .  .  .  so  much  to  thee  ?     Can  I  pour 

thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble  ?     Then  my  soul, 

instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower 

range. 
Then,  love  me,  Love  !  look  on  me  —  breathe 

on  me  ! 

As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield   the  grave   for  thy  sake,  and   ex 
change 
My  near  sweet  view  of  heaven,  for  earth 

with  thee  ! 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 


'33 


XXVI 

I  LIV'D  with  visions  for  my  company 
Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 
And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought 

to  know 

A  sweeter  music  than  they  play'd  to  me. 
But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 
Of  this  world's  dust,  their  lutes  did  silent 

grow, 

And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  below 
Their  vanishing  eyes.      Then   THOU  didst 

come  —  to  be, 
Beloved,  what  they  seem'd.     Their  shining 

fronts, 
Their  songs,  their  splendors,  (better,  yet 

the  same, 

As  river-water  hallow'd  into  fonts) 
Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 
My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants  : 
Because  God's  gift  puts  man's  best  dreams 

to  shame. 


XXXV 

IF  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  coinmcn 

kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it 

strange, 

len  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
walls  and  floors,  another  home  than  this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which 

is 
U'd  by  dead   eyes  too  tender  to   know 

change 
That 's  hardest  ?     If  to  conquer  love,  has 

tried, 
To  conquer  grief,  tries  more,  as  all  things 

prove, 

.For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  griev'd  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 
Yet  love  me  — wilt  thou?  Open  thine 

heart  wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

XXXVIII 

ST  time  he  kiss'd  me,  he  but  only  kiss'd 

:  The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write  ; 
And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean   and 

white, 
Slow   to   world-greetings,   quick   with    its 

"  Oh,  list," 


When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  ame- 

thyst 

I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 
Than  that  first  kiss.    The  second  pass'd  in 

height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half 


Half  falling  on  the  hair.    O  beyond  meed  ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love'g 

own  crown, 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 
In  perfect,  purple  state  ;  since  when,  in- 

deed, 
I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "  My  love,  my 

own." 

XXXIX 

BECAUSE  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st 
the  grace 

To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask  of 
me, 

(Against  which,  years  have  beat  thus 
blanchingly 

With  their  rains,)  and  behold  my  soul's 
true  face, 

The  dim  and  weary  witness  of  life's  race,  — 

Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love  to  see, 

Through  that  same  soul's  distracting 
lethargy, 

The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 

In  the  new  Heavens,  —  because  nor  sin 
nor  woe, 

Nor  God's  infliction,  nor  death's  neighbor 
hood, 

Nor  all  which  others  viewing,  turn  to  go, 

Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self- 
vie  w'd,  — 

Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  .  Dearest,  teach 
me  so 

To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost,  good  I 

XLI 

I  THANK  all  who  have  lovM  me  ir  their 

hearts, 
With  thanks  and  love  from  mine.    Deep 

thanks  to  all 

Who  paus'd  a  little  near  the  prison-wall 
To  hear  my  music  in  its  louder  parts  f 
Ere  they  went  onward,  each   one  to  the 

mart's 

Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 
But  thou,  who,  in  my  voice's  sink  and  fall 
When  the  sob  took  it,  thy  divineet  Art  s 


134 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Own   instrument  didst   drop  down  at  thy 
foot 

To    hearken   what    I   said     between    my 
tears,  .  .  . 

Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee  !     Oh,  to 
shoot 

My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future  years, 

That  they  should  lend   it   utterance,   and 
salute 

Love  that  endures,  from  Life  that  disap 
pears  ! 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the 

ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My   soul   can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of 

sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seem'd  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints,  —  I  love  thee  with  the 

breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  !  —  and,  if  God 

choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


A   MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 

WHAT  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river  : 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flow'd  the  river  ; 
And  hack'd   and   hew'd   as   a   great  god 
can, 


With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notch'd  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  laugh'd  the  great  god 

Pan, 

(Laugh'd  while  he  sat  by  the  river,) 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed.*' 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 

reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan  ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man  : 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain,  — 

For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 


FROM  "CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS" 

JULIET   OF   NATIONS 

I  HP:ARD  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing 
'Neath    Casa    Guidi    windows,    by    the 

church, 

0  bella  liberta,  0  bella  !  —  stringing 
The  same  words  still  on  notes  he  went  in 

search 

So  high  for,  you  concluded  the  upspringing 

Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sky  from  perch 

Must  leave  the  whole  bush  in  a  tremble 

green, 

And  that  the  heart  of  Italy  must  beat, 
While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise  serene 
'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Florence 

street  : 

A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  had  been 

By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his  feet, 

And  still  O  bella  liberta  he  sang. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 


'35 


Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innumer- 

ous 

Sweet  songs  which   still  for   Italy  out- 
rang 
From  older  singers'  lips  who  sang  not  thus 

Exultingly  and  purely,  yet,  with  pang 
Fast  sheath'd  in  music,  touch'd  the  heart 

of  us 

So  finely  that  the  pity  scarcely  pain'd. 
I  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others, 
Bewailers  for  their  Italy  enchaiu'd, 
And  how  they  calFd   her  childless  among 

mothers, 
Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce  re- 

frain'd 

Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 
Might   a   sham'd    sister's,  —  "  Had    she 

been  less  fair 
She  were  less  wretched  ; "  —  how,  evoking 

so 

From  congregated  wrong  and  heap'd  de 
spair 
Of  men  and  women  writhing  under  blow, 

Harrow'd  and  hideous  in  a  filthy  lair, 
Some  personating  Image  wherein  woe 
Was  wrapp'd  in  beauty  from  offending 

much, 
They  call'd  it  Cybele,  or  Niobe, 

Or  laid   it   corpse-like   on    a    bier   for 

such, 

Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for  Italy 
Those   cadenced   tears   which  burn   not 

where  they  touch,  — 
u  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as  we  ? 
And   was  the  violet    that   crown'd   thy 

head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made  it 

rough, 
It  slipp'd  down  and  across  thine  eyelids 

dead, 
O   sweet,   fair  Juliet?"     Of  such   songs 

enough, 
Too  many  of  such  complaints  !  behold, 

instead, 
Void  at  Verona,  Juliet's  marble  trough  : 

As  void  as  that  is,  are  all  images 
Men  set   between   themselves   and   actual 

wrong, 
To  catch  the  weight  of  pity,  meet  the 

stress 
Of  conscience,  —  since  't  is  easier  to  gaze 

•  long 

On  mournful  masks  and  sad  effigies 
Than  on  real,  live,  weak  creatures  crush'd 
by  strong. 


SURSUM  CORDA 

The  sun  strikes,  through  the  windows,  up 

the  floor  ; 

Stand  out  in  it,  my  own  young  Florentine, 
Not  two  years  old,  and  let  me  see  the* 

more  1 

It  grows  along  thy  amber  curia,  to  shine 
Brighter    than    elsewhere.     Now,    look 

straight  before, 
And  fix  thy  brave  blue   English  eyes  on 

mine, 

And  from  my  soul,  which  fronts  the  fu 
ture  so, 
With  unabash'd  and  unabated  gaze, 

Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  angeU 

know 
When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost.    Down 

God's  ways 
With  just   alighted   feet,    between   the 

snow 
And  snowdrops,  where  a  little  lamb  may 

graze, 
Thou  hast  no  fear,  my  lamb,  about  the 

road, 
Albeit  in  our  vain-glory  we  assume 

That,  less  than  we  have,  thou  hast  learnt 

of  God. 
Stand  out,  my  blue-eyed  prophet !  —  thou, 

to  whom 
The  earliest  world-day  light  that  ever 

flow'd, 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  chanced  to 

come ! 
Now  shake  the  glittering  nimbus  of  thy 

hair. 

And  be  God's  witness  that  the  elemental 
New  springs  of  life  are  gushing  every- 

where 

To  cleanse  the  water-courses,  and  prevent  all 
Concrete  obstructions  which  mfeat  the 

air! 

That  earth 's  alive,  and  gentle  or  ungentle 
Motions      within      her,      signify     but 

growth  !  — 

The  ground  swells  greenest  o'er  the  labor 
ing  moles. 
Howe'er  the  uneasy  world  U  vex'd  and 

wroth, 

Young  children,  lifted  high  on  parent  souta, 
Look  round  them  with  a  smile  upon  the 

mouth, 

And  take  for  music  every  bell  that  tolls  ; 
(WHO  said  we  should  be  better  if  liki 
these?; 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


But  we  sit  murmuring  for  the  future  though 

Posterity  is  smiling  on  our  knees, 
Convicting  us  of  folly.     Let  us  go  — 

We  will  trust  God.     The  blank  interstices 
Men  take  for  ruins,  He  will  build  into 

With  pillar'd  marbles  rare,  or  knit  across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane 's  com 
plete. 

This  world  has  no  perdition,  if  some  loss. 

Such  cheer  I  gather  from  thy  smiling,  Sweet ! 
The  self-same  cherub-faces  which  emboss 
The  Vail,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy-seat. 

A   COURT   LADY 

HER  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes 

with  purple  were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and 

restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name 

and  in  race  ; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the 

face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth   more   true   as 

woman  and  wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder 

in  manners  and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said 

to  her  maidens,  "  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at 

the  court  of  the  king. 

"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid, 

clear  of  the  mote, 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp 

me  the  small  at  the  throat. 

"Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  dia 
monds  to  fasten  the  sleeves, 

Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder 
of  snow  from  the  eaves." 

Gorgeous  she  enter'd  the  sunlight  which 
gather'd  her  up  in  a  flante, 

While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to 
the  hospital  came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from 

end  to  end, 
"Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each 

is  the  place  of  a  friend." 


Up  she  pass'd  through  the  wards,  and 
stood  at  a  young  man's  bed  : 

Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the 
droop  of  his  head. 

"  Art     thou     a    Lombard,    my    brother  ? 

Happy  art  thou,"  she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him  :  he  dream'd 

in  her  face  and  died. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still 

to  a  second  : 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by 

dungeons  were  reckon 'd. 

Wourds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in 

his  life  were  sorer. 
"  Art   thou  a   Romagnole  ?  "      Her   eyes 

drove  lightnings  before  her 

"  Austrian  and  priest  had  join'd  to  double 

and  tighten  the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one,  —  free  by 

the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using 

the  life  overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present,  (too  new,) 

in  glooms  of  the  past." 

Down  she  stepp'd  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a 

face  like  a  girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying,  —  a  deep 

black  hole  in  the  eurls. 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother?  and 
seest  thou,  dreaming  in  pain, 

Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching 
the  List  of  the  slain  ?  " 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touch'd  his 
cheeks  with  her  hands  : 

"Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  al 
though  she  should  weep  as  she 
stands." 

On  she  pass'd    to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm 

carried  off  by  a  ball  : 
Kneeling,  .  .  .  "  O  more  than  my  brother  I 

how  shall  I  thank  thee  for  all  ? 

"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought 

for  his  land  and  line, 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate 

of  a  wrong  not  thine. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING 


'37 


"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to 

be  dispossessed  : 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations,  who 

dare  to  be  strong  for  the  rest !  " 

Ever  she  pass'd  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a 

couch  where  pin'd 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a 

hope  out  of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gaz'd,  and  twice  she 

tried  at  the  name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that 

falter'd  and  came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?  —  she  turn'd  as  in 

passion  and  loss, 
And  stoop'd  to  his  forehead  and  kiss'd  it, 

as  if  she  were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  mov'd 

on  then  to  another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "  And  dost 

thou  suffer,  my  brother  ?  " 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers  :  —  "  Out  of  the 
Piedmont  lion 

Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweet 
est  to  live  or  to  die  on." 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands,  — "  Well, 

oh,  well  have  ye  done 
In  noftle,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not 

be  noble  alone." 

:k  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to 

her  feet  with  a  spring,  — 
**That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this  is  the 
Court  of  the  King." 


MOTHER  AND   POET 

TURIN,  AFTER  NEWS  FROM   GAETA,   l86l 

DEAD  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in 

the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 

sea. 
Dead  !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at 

the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy 

free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  I 


Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men 

said  ; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agoniz'd  here, 
—  The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on 

in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?    Oh, 

vain! 
What  art  ts  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her 

breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile 

at  the  pain  ? 
Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were  strong 

as  you  press'd, 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art 's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her 

knees 
Both   darlings  ;  to   feel   all   their  arms 

round  her  throat, 

Cling,  strangle  a  little,  to  sew  by  degrees 
And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat 

little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 

To  teach  them  ...  It  stings  there!    / 

made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.     I  taught 

them, .no  doubt, 
That  a  country 's  a  thing  men  should  die 

for  at  need. 

/  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes   flash'd  ...  O  my 

beautiful  eyes  !  .  .  . 
I  exulted  ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the 

wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But  then 

the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  !     Then  one 

weeps,  then  one  kneels  ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels  ! 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters 

moil'd    , 
With    my    kisses,  — of    camp-life    and 

glory,  and  how 
They  both  lov'd   me;    and,   soon  coming 

home  to  be  spoil'd, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from 

my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


Then   was    triumph   at    Turin :    "  Ancona 

was  free  ! " 
And  someone  came  out  of  the  cheers  in 

the  street, 
With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something 

to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  I    I  fell  down  at  his 

feet, 
While  they  cheer'd  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it  ;  friends  sooth'd  me  ;   my  grief 

look'd  sublime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  re- 

main'd 
To  be  leant  on  and  walk'd  with,  recalling 

the  time 
When   the   first   grew   immortal,   while 

both  of  us  strain'd 
To  the  height  he  had  gain'd. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more 

strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  "  I  was  not  to 

faint,  — 
One  lov'd  me  for  two  —  would  be  with  me 

ere  long  : 
And  Viva  I*  Italia!  —  he  died  for,  our 

saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "he  was  safe,  and 

aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turn'd  off  the  balls,  — 

was  impress'd 
Ifc  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I 

could  bear, 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispos- 

sess'd, 
"To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  tfhich,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph- 
line, 
Swept    smoothly  the   next   news    from 

Gaeta  :  —  Shot . 
TsU  his  mother.      Ah,  ah,  "  his,"  "  their  " 

mother,  —  not  "  mine," 
No  voice  says  "My  mother"  again  to 

me.     What! 
You  think  Guido  forg'ot  ? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with 

Heaven, 

They   drop   earth's   affections,   conceive 
not  of  woe  ? 


I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately 

forgiven 
Through  THAT  Love  and  Sorrow  which 

reconcil'd  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

O  Christ  of  the  five  wounds,  who  look  dst 

through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother  !  consider,  I 


How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate, 

mark, 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with 

eyes  turn'd  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say  ! 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that  's  out  of  nature. 

We  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must 

always  keep  one. 

'T  were  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall; 
And,  when  Italy  's  made,  for  what  end  is 

it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

Ah,   ah,  ah  !    when   Gaeta  's   taken,  what 

then  ? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more 

at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out 

of  men  ? 
When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  re 

tort  • 

Have  cut  the  game  short  ? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new 

jubilee, 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its 

white,  green,  and  red, 
When  you  have  your  country  from  moun 

tain  to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on 

his  head, 
(And  /  have  my  Dead)  — 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring 

your  bells  low, 
And    burn   your    lights   faintly  !       My 

country  is  there, 
Above  the  star  prick'd  by  the  last  peak  of 

snow  : 
My  Italy  's  THERE,  with  my  brave  civio 

Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair  1 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 


'39 


Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children 

in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in 

self-scorn  ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring 

us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this  —  and  we  sit  on 

forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 

east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 

sea, 

Both  !  both  my  boys  !  If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me. 

[This  was  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  a  poet  and  patriot, 
whose  sons  were  killed  at  Aucona  and  Gaeta.] 


FROM   "AURORA   LEIGH" 

MOTHERLESS 

I  WRITE.     My  mother  was  a  Florentine, 
Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from  see 
ing  me 
When  scarcely  I  was  four  years  old  ;  my 

life, 
A  poor  spark  snatch 'd  up  from  a  failing 

lamp 
Which  went  out  therefore.     She  was  weak 

and  frail  ; 

She  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  giving  life  — 
The  mother's  rapture  slew  her.     If  her  kiss 
Had  left  a  longer  weight  upon  my  lips, 
It  might  have  steadied  the  uneasy  breath, 
And  reconcil'd  and  fraterniz'd  my  soul 
With  the  new  order.     As  it  was,  indeed, 
I  felt  a  mother-want  about  the  world, 
And  still  went  seeking,  like  a  bleating  lamb 
Left  out  at  night,  in  shutting  up  the  fold,  — 
As  restless  as  a  nest-deserted  bird 
Grown  chill  through  something  being  away, 

though  what 

It  knows  not.     I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was  born 
To  make  my  father  sadder,  and  myself 
Not  overjoyous,  truly.     Women  know 
The  way  to  rear  up  children  (to  be  just,) 
They  know  a  simple,  merry,  tender  knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes, 
And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no 

sense, 
And  kissing  full  sense  into  empty  words  ; 


Which  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon, 
Although  such  trifles  :  children  learn  by 

such, 

Love's  holy  earnest  in  a  pretty  play, 
And  get  not  over-early  solemniz'd,  — 
But  seeing,  as  in  a  rose-bush,  Love 's  Divine, 
Which  burns  and  hurts  not,  —  not  a  single 

bloom,  — 

Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  Love,  he 
Such  good  do  mothers.  Fathers  love  as 

well 
—  Mine    did,    I    know,  — but    still    with 

heavier  brains, 

And  wills  more  consciously  responsible, 
And  not  as  wisely,  since  less  foolishly  ; 
So  mothers  have  God's  license  to  be  unss'd. 

BOOKS 

Or  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green, 
And  liv'd  my  life,  and  thought  my  thoughts, 

and  pray'd 
My  prayers  without  the  vicar  ;  read  my 

books, 

Without  considering  whether  they  were  fit 
To  do  me  good.     Mark,  there.     We  get  no 


By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book, 
And  calculating  profits  ...  so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.     It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  pro 
found, 
Impassion'd    for  its  beauty  and    salt  of 

truth  — 

'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a 
book. 


THE  POETS 

I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room 
Pil'd  high  with  cases  in  my  father's  name  ; 
Pil'd  high,  pack'd  large,  —  where,  creeping 

in  and  out 

Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 
Like  some  small  nimble  mouse  between  the 

ribs 

Of  a  mastodon,  I  nibbled  here  and  there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through  the  gap, 
In  heats  of  terror,  haste,  victorious  joy, 
The  first  book  first.     And  how  1  felt  it 

beat 

Under  my  pillow,  in  the  morning's  dark, 
An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me  read ! 
My  books ! 


140 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


At  last,  because  the  time  was  ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 

Plunges  in  fury,  when  the  internal  fires 
Have  reach'd  and  prick'd  her  heart,  and, 

throwing  flat 
The    marts   and    temples,   the    triumphal 

gates 

And  towers  of  observation,  clears  herself 
To  elemental  freedom  —  thus,  my  soul, 
At  poetry's  divine  first  finger  touch, 
Let  go  conventions  and  sprang  up  surpris'd, 
Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 

What 's  this,  Aurora  Leigh, 
You  write  so  of  the  poets,  and  not  laugh  ? 
Those  virtuous  liars,  dreamers  after  dark, 
Exaggerators  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
And  soothsayers  in  a  tea-cup? 

I  write  so 

Of  the  only  truth-tellers,  now  left  to  God,  — 
The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth, 
Oppos'd  to  relative,  comparative, 
And  temporal  truths  ;  the  only  holders  by 
His  sun-skirts,  through  conventional  gray 

glooms  ; 

The  only  teachers  who  instruct  mankind, 
From  just  a  shadow  on  a  charnel  wall, 
To  find  man's  veritable  stature  out, 
Erect,  sublime,  —  the  measure  of  a  man, 
And  that 's  the  measure  of  an  angel,  says 
The  apostle. 

THE  FERMENT   OF   NEW   WINE 

And  so,  like  most  young  poets,  in  a  flush 
Of  individual  life,  I  pour'd  myself 
Along  the  veins  of  others,  and  achiev'd 
Mere  lifeless  imitations  of  live  verse, 
And  made  the  living  answer  for  the  dead, 
Profaning  nature.  "  Touch  not,  do  not  taste, 
Nor  handle,"  —  we're  too  legal,  who  write 

young : 
We  beat  the   phorminx  till  we  hurt  our 

thumbs, 

As  if  still  ignorant  of  counterpoint  ; 
We  call  the  Muse  .  .  .  "O  Muse, benignant 

Muse!"- 

As  if  we  had  seen  her  purple-braided  head 
With  the  eyes  in  it  start  between  the 

boughs 

As  often  as  a  stag's.  What  make-believe, 
With  so  much  earnest  !  what  effete  results, 
From  virile  efforts  !  what  cold  wire-drawn 

odes, 


From    such  white  heats  !    bucolics,  where 

the  cows 
Would  scare  the  writer  if  they  splash'd  the 

mud 

In  lashing  off  the  flies,  —  didactics,  driven 
Against  the  heels  of  what  the  master  said  ; 
And  counterfeiting  epics,  shrill  with  trumps 
A  babe  might  blow  between  two  straining 

cheeks 

Of  bubbled  rose,  to  make  his  mother  laugh  j 
And  elegiac  griefs,  and  songs  of  love, 
Like  cast-off  nosegays  pick'd  up  on    the 

road, 
The  worse  for  being  warm  :  all  these  things, 

writ 

On  happy  mornings,  with  a  morning  heart> 
That  leaps  for  love,  is  active  for  resolve, 
Weak  for  art  only.     Oft,  the  ancient  forms 
Will  thrill,  indeed,  in  carrying  the  young 

blood. 
The   wine-skins,   now   and    then,   a    little 

warp'd, 
Will  crack  even,  as  the  new  wine  gurgles 

in. 
Spare  the  old  bottles  !  —  spill  not  the  new 


By  Keats's  soul,  the  man  who  never  stepp'd 
In  gradual  progress  like  another  man, 
But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central  self, 
Enspher'd  himself  in  twenty  perfect  years 
And  died,  not  young,  — (the  life  of  a  long 

life, 

Distill'd  to  a  mere  drop,  falling  like  a  tear 
Upon  the  world's  cold  cheek  to  make  it 

burn 

For  ever  ;)  by  that  strong  excepted  soul, 
I  count  it  strange,  and  hard  to  understand, 
That  nearly  all  young  poets  should  write 

old  ; 

That  Pope  was  sexagenarian  at  sixteen, 
And  beardless  Byron  academical, 
And  so  with  others.     It  may  be,  perhaps, 
Such  have  not  settled  long  and  deep  enough 
In  trance,  to  attain  to  clairvoyance,  —  and 

still 

The  memory  mixes  with  the  vision,  spoils, 
And  works  it  turbid. 

Or  perhaps,  again 

In  order  to  discover  the  Muse-Sphinx, 
The  melancholy  desert  must  sweep  round, 
Behind  you,  as  before.  — 

For  me,  I  wrote 
False  poems,  like  the   rest,  and   thought 

them  true, 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT  BROWNING 


myself  was  true  in  writing  them. 
I,  perad  venture,  have  writ  true  ones  siuce 
With  less  complacence. 


ENGLAND 

Whoever  lives  true  life,  will  love  true  love. 
I  learu'd  to  love  that  England.     Very  oft, 
Before  the  day  was  born,  or  otherwise 
Through  secret  windings  of  the  afternoons, 
I  threw  my  hunters  off  and  plunged  myself 
Among  the  deep  hills,  as  a  hunted  stag 
Will  take  the  waters,  shivering  with  the 

fear 
And  passion  of  the  course.     And  when,  at 

last 
Escap'd,  —  so  many  a  green  slope  built  on 

slope 

jtwixt  me  and  the  enemy's  house  behind, 
dar'd  to  rest,  or  wander,  —  like  a  rest 
le  sweeter  for  the  step  upon  the  grass,  — 
view  the  ground's  most  gentle  dimple- 

ment, 

if  God's  finger  touch'd  but  did  not  press 
making  England  !)  such  an  up  and  down 
!  verdure,  —  nothing  too  much  up  or  down, 
ripple  of  land  ;  such  little  hills,  the  sky 
Jan  stoop  to  tenderly  and  the  wheatfields 

climb  ; 

Such  nooks  of  valleys,  lin'd  with  orchises, 
Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams  ; 
And  open  pastures,  where  you  scarcely  tell 
White  daisies  from  white  dew,  —  at  inter 
vals 

The  mythic  oaks  and  elm-trees  standingout 
Self-pois'd  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade,  — 
I  thought  my  father's  land  was  worthy  too 
Of  being  my  Shakespeare's.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Breaking  into  voluble  ecstacy, 
I  flatter'd  all  the  beauteous  country  round, 
As  poets  use  .  .  .  the  skies,  the  clouds,  the 

fields, 

The  happy  violets  hiding  from  the  roads 
The    primroses    run    down    to,    carrying 

gold,  — 
The  tangled  hedgerows,   where  the   cows 

push  out 
ipatient    horns    and    tolerant    churning 

mouths 
"wixt  dripping  ash-boughs,  —  hedgerows 

all  alive 

rith  birds  and  gnats  and  large  white  but 
terflies 

Which  look  as  if  the  May-flower  had  sought 
life 


And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind, — 
Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver  mist, 
Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  luIU, 
And  cattle  grazing  in  the  water'U  vales, 
And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from  the 

woods, 

And  cottage-gardens  smelling  everywhere, 
Coiifus'd  with  smell  of  orchards.    •«  See,"  I 

said, 

"  And  see  !  is  God  not  with  us  on  the  earth  ? 
And  shall  we  put  Him  down  by  aught  we 

do  ? 
Who  says  there 's  nothing  for  the  poor  and 

vile 

Save  poverty  and  wickedness  ?  behold  !  " 
And  ankle-deep  in  English  grass  I  leap'd, 
And  clapp'd  my  hands,  and  call'd  all  very 

fair. 


"BY   SOLITARY  FIRES  " 

O  my  God,  my  God, 
O  supreme  Artist,  who  as  sole  return 
For  all  the  cosmic  wonder  of  Thy  work, 
Demandest  of  us  just  a  word  ...  a  name, 
"My   Father!"  —  thou   hast    knowledge, 

only  thou, 

How  dreary  't  is  for  women  to  sit  still 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off, 
Too  far !  ay,  praising  our  quick  sense  of 

love, 

Our  very  heart  of  passionate  womanhood, 
Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse  with 
out 

Being  present  also  in  the  unkiss'd  lip*, 
And  eyes  undried  because  there  's  none  to 

ask 
The  reason  they  grew  moist. 

To  sit  alone, 
And   think,  for  comfort,  how,  that  very 

night, 

Affianced  lovers,  leaning  face  to  face 
With  sweet  half-listenings  for  each  other's 

breath, 

Are  reading  haply  from  some  page  of  oum, 
To  pause  with  a  thrill,  as  if  their  cheeks 

had  touch'd, 

When  such  a  stanza,  level  to  their  mood, 
Seems  floating  their  own  thoughts  out  — 

"  So  I  feel 
For  thee,"  —  "  And  I,  for  thee  :   this  poet 

knows 
What  everlasting  love  is!"  —how,  that 

night 


1 42 


POETS    OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


A  father  issuing  from  the  misty  roads 
Upon   the   luminous   round   of   lamp   and 

hearth 

And  happy  children,  having  caught  up  first 
The  youngest   there  until  it   shrunk   and 

shriek'd 
To  feel   the   cold   chin   prick   its   dimple 

through 
With  winter  from  the  hills,  may  throw  i' 

the  lap 
Of  the  eldest  (who  has  learn'd  to  drop  her 

lids 
To  hide  some  sweetness  newer  than  last 

year's) 
Our  book  and  cry,  ..."  Ah  you,  you  care 

for  rhymes  ; 

So  here  be  rhymes  to  pore  on  under  trees, 
When  April  comes  to  let  you  !     I  've  been 

told 

They  are  not  idle  as  so  many  are, 
But   set    hearts  beating  pure   as  well  as 

fast: 
It 's  yours,  the  book  ;  I  '11  write  your  name 

in  it,  — 

That  so  you  may  not  lose,  however  lost 
In  poet's  lore  and  charming  reverie, 
The  thought  of  how  your  father  thought  of 

you 
In  riding  from  the  town." 

To  have  our  books 

Apprais'd  by  love,  associated  with  love, 
While  we  sit  loveless  !  is  it  hard,  you  think  ? 
At  least 't  is  mournful.   Fame,  indeed,  't  was 

said, 

Means  simply  love.     It  was  a  man  said  that. 
And  then  there  's  love  and  love  :  the  love 

of  all 

(To  risk,  in  turn,  a  woman's  paradox,) 
Is  but  a  small  thing  to  the  love  of  one. 
You  bid  a  hungry  child  be  satisfied 
With  a  heritage  of  many  corn-fields  :  nay, 
He  says  he  's  hungry,  —  he  would  rather 


That  little  barley-cake  you  keep  from  him 
While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.     So  with 


us. 


ROMNEY   AND   AURORA 

But  oh,  the  night !    oh,  bitter-sweet !  oh, 

sweet ! 

O  dark,  O  moon  and  stars,  O  ecstasy 
Of  darkness  !     O  great  mystery  of  love,  — 
In  which  absorb'd,  loss,  anguish,  treason's 

self 


Enlarges  rapture,  —  as  a  pebble  dropp'd 
In  some  full  wine-cup,  over-brims  the  wine  ! 
While  we  two  sate    together,  lean'd  that 

night 
So    close,   my   very   garments   crept    and 

thrill'd 
With  strange  electric  life  ;  and  both  my 

cheeks 
Grew  red,  then  pale,  with  touches  from  my 

hair 
In  which  his  breath  was  ;  while  the  golden 

moon 

Was  hung  before  our  faces  as  the  badge 
Of  some  sublime  inherited  despair, 
Since  ever  to  be  seen  by  only  one,  — 
A  voice  said,  low  and  rapid  as  a  sigh, 
Yet    breaking,  I    felt  conscious,    from    a 

smile,  — 
"  Thank  God,  who  made  me  blind,  to  make 

me  see  ! 

Shine  on,  Aurora,  dearest  light  of  souls, 
Which  rul'st  for  evermore  both  day  and 

night ! 
I  am  happy." 

I  flung  closer  to  his  breast, 
As    sword    that,    after    battle,    flings    to 

sheathe  ; 

And,  in  that  hurtle  of  united  souls, 
The  mystic  motions,  which  in  common  moods 
Are  shut  beyond  our  sense,  broke  in  on  us, 
And,  as  we  sate,  we  felt  the  old  earth  spin, 
And  all  the  starry  turbulence  of  worlds 
Swing  round  us  in  their  audient  circles,  till 
If  that  same  golden  moon  were  overhead 
Or  if  beneath  our  feet,  we  did  not  know. 


THE   SLEEP 

OF  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  "  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tun 'd  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows  ? 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 


MRS.    BROWNING  — DOMETT 


'43 


little  dust  to  overweep, 

nd  bitter  memories  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  : 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

Sleep  soft,  beloved  ! "  we  sometimes  say 
~o  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep: 
Jut  never  doleful  dream  again 

break  the  happy  slumber  when 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

earth,  so  full  of  dreary  nofses  ! 

men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 

delved  gold,  the  wallers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  0  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

[if  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 

[is  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap  : 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 


Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirm'd  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  tin*  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mum  mers  leapt 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 
Who  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall  1 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


3filfre&  Domett 


A  GLEE   FOR   WINTER 

IENCE,   rude   Winter !    crabbed  old  fel 
low, 

Sever  merry,  never  mellow  ! 
RTell-a-day  !  in  rain  and  snow 
RThat  will  keep  one's  heart  aglow  ? 
3roups  of  kinsmen,  old  and  young, 
Dldest  they  old  friends  among  ; 
jroups  of  friends,  so  old  and  true 
That  they  seem  our  kinsmen  too  ; 
These  all  merry  all  together 
3harm  away  chill  Winter  weather. 

What  will  kill  this  dull  old  fellow  ? 
fAle  that's  bright,  and  wine  that's  mel 
low! 

'Dear  old  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
Some  true  love,  and  laughter  too  ; 
Pleasant  wit,  and  harmless  fun, 
And  a  dance  when  day  is  done. 
Music,  friends  so  true  and  tried, 
Whisper'd  love  by  warm  fireside, 
Mirth  at  all  times  all  together, 
Make  sweet  May  of  Winter  weather. 


A   CHRISTMAS   HYMN 
(OLD  STYLE:  1837) 

IT  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  Queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars  ; 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hush'd  domain  \ 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturb'd  their  ancient  reign, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 

Centuries  ago. 

T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night  I 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home. 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless 

sway  ; 

What  reck'd  the  Roman  what  befell 
A  paltry  province  far  away, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  1 


144 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor  : 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fall'u  through  a  half-shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.     He  pass'd  —  for  nought 

Told  what  was  going  on  within  ; 
How  keen  the  stars  !  his  only  thought ; 

The  air  how  calm  and  cold  and  thin, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 

Centuries  ago  ! 

O  strange  indifference  !  —  low  and  high 
Drows'd  over  common  joys  and  cares  : 
The  earth  was  still  —  but  knew  not  why  ; 

The  world  was  listening  —  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One    that    shall    thrill    the    world    for 

ever  ! 

To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed, 
Man's   doom   was    link'd,   110    more    to 
sever, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago. 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  charm'd  and  holy  now. 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay  new-born 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  Earth  and  Hea 
ven, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago. 


FROM   "A   CHRISTMAS    HYMN' 
(NEW  STYLE  :  1875) 

To  murder  one  so  young  ! 
To  still  that  wonder-teeming  tongue 
Ere  half  the  fulness  of  its  mellow'd  glory 
Had  flash'd  in  mild  sheet-lightnings  forth! 
Who  knows,  had  that  majestic  Life  grown 

hoary, 
Long  vers'd  in  all  man's  weakness,  woes 

and  worth, 
What  beams  had  pierced  the  clouds  that 

veil  thi»  voyage  of  care  ! 
Not  Zeus,  nor  Baal's  throne, 
Nor  Osiris  alone, 

But  Doubt,  or  worse  assurance  of  Despair, 
Or  Superstition's  brood  that  blends  the  tiger 
with  the  hare. 

Who  knows  but  we  had  caught 
Some     hint     from     pure      impassion'd 

Thought, 
How  Matter's  links  and  Spirit's,  that  still 

fly  us, 

Can  break  and  still  leave  Spirit  free  ; 
How  Will  can  act  o'ermaster'd  by  no  bias  ; 

Why  Good  omnipotent  lets  Evil  be  ; 
What  balm  heals  beauteous  Nature's  uni 
versal  flaw  ; 

And  how,  below,  above, 
It  is  Love,  and  only  Love 
Bids  keen  Sensation  glut  Destruction's 

maw  — 

Love  rolls  this  groaning  Sea  of   Life  on 
pitiless  rocks  of  Law  ! 


H&ttltam 

GLENKINDIE 

ABOUT  Glenkindie  and  his  man 

A  false  ballant  hath  long  been  writ  ; 

Some  bootless  loon  had  written  it, 

Upon  a  bootless  plan  : 
But  I  have  found  the  true  at  last, 
And  here  it  is,  —  so  hold  it  fast ! 
'T  was  made  by  a  kind  damosel 
Who  lov'd  him  and  his  man  right  well. 

Glenkindie,  best  of  harpers,  came 

Unbidden  to  our  town  ; 
And  he  was  sad,  and  sad  to  see, 

For  love  had  worn  him  down. 


£cott 


It  was  love,  as  all  men  know, 

The  love  that  brought  him  down, 

The  hopeless  love  for  the  King's  daugh 
ter, 
The  dove  that  heir'd  a  crown. 

Now  he  wore  not  that  collar  of  gold, 

His  dress  was  forest  green  ; 
His  wondrous  fair  and  rich  mantel 

Had  lost  its  silvery  sheen. 

But  still  by  his  side  walk'd  Rafe,  his  boy, 

In  goodly  cramoisie  : 
Of  all  the  boys  that  ever  I  saw 

The  goodliest  boy  was  he. 


WILLIAM   BELL   SCOTT 


'45 


Rafe  the  page  !     O  Rafe  the  page  ! 
Ye  stole  the  heart  f  rae  me  : 

0  Rafe  the  page  !     O  Rafe  the  page  ! 
I  wonder  where  ye  be  : 

We  ne'er  may  see  Glenkindie  more, 
But  may  we  never  see  thee  ? 

Glenkindie  came  within  the  hall ; 
We  set  him  on  the  dais, 
id  gave  him  bread,  and  gave  him  wine, 
The  best  in  all  the  place. 

set  for  him  the  guests'  high  chair, 
And  spread  the  naperie  : 
ir  Dame  herself  would  serve  for  him, 
And  I  for  Rafe,  perdie  ! 

But  down  he  sat  on  a  low  low  stool, 

And  thrust  his  long  legs  out, 
And  lean'd  his  back  to  the  high  chair, 

And  turn'd  his  harp  about. 

turn'd  it  round,  he  strok'd  the  strings, 
He  touch'd  each  tirling-pin, 
He  put  his  mouth  to  the  sounding-board 
Aiid  breath'd  his  breath  therein. 

And  Rafe  sat  over  against  his  face, 
And  look'd  at  him  wistfullie  : 

1  almost  grat  ere  he  began, 
They  were  so  sad  to  see. 

The  very  first  stroke  he  strack  that  day, 
We  all  came  crowding  near  ; 
id  the  second  stroke  he  strack  that  day, 
We  all  were  smit  with  fear. 

The  third  stroke  that  he  strack  that  day, 

Full  fain  we  were  to  cry  ; 
The  fourth  stroke  that  he  strack  that  day, 

We  thought  that  we  would  die. 

To  tongue  can  tell  how  sweet  it  was, 

How  far,  and  yet  how  near  : 
We  saw  the  saints  in  Paradise, 
And  bairnies  on  their  bier. 

And    our    sweet    Dame    saw    her    good 
lord  — 

She  told  me  privilie  : 
She  saw  him  as  she  saw  him  last, 

On  his  ship  upon  the  sea. 

Anon  he  laid  his  little  harp  by, 
He  shut  his  wondrous  eyes  ; 


We  stood  a  long  time  like  dumb  things, 
Stood  in  a  dumb  surprise. 

Then  all  at  once  we  left  that  trance, 

And  shouted  where  we  stood  ; 
We  clasp'd  each  other's  hands  and  vow'd 

We  would  be  wise  and  good. 

Soon  he  rose  up  and  Rafe  rose  too, 
He  drank  wine  and  broke  bread  ; 

He  clasp'd  hands  with  our  trembling  Dame, 
But  never  a  word  he  said  ; 

They  went,  —  Alack  and  lack-a-day ! 
They  went  the  way  they  came. 

I  follow'd  them  all  down  the  floor, 

And  O  but  I  had  drouth 
To  touch  his  cheek,  to  touch  his  hand, 

To  kiss  Rafe's  velvet  mouth  ! 

But  I  knew  such  was  not  for  me. 

They  went  straight  from  the  door ; 
We  saw  them  fade  within  the  mist, 

And  never  saw  them  more. 

YOUTH   AND   AGE 

OUR  night  repast  was  ended  :  quietness 
Return'd   again  :   the  boys  were   in  their 

books  ; 

The  old  man  slept,  and  by  him  slept  his  dog  : 
My  thoughts  were  in  the  dream-land  of  to 
morrow  : 
A  knock  is  heard;  anon  the  maid  brings 

in 

A  black-seaPd  letter  that  some  over-work'd 
Late  messenger  leaves.      Each  one  looks 

round  and  scans, 

But  lifts  it  not,  and  I  at  last  am  told 
To  read  it.     '*  Died  here  at  his  house  this 

day"- 
Some  well-known  name  not  needful  here 

to  print, 

Follows  at  length.     Soon  all  return  again 
To  their  first  stillness,  but  the   old   man 

coughs, 
And  cries,  "Ah,  he  was  always   like  the 

grave, 
And  still  he  was  but  young  !  "  while  those 

who  stand 

On  life's  green  threshold  smile  within  them 
selves, 

Thinking  how  very  old  he  was  to  them, 
And   what   long  years,   what    memorable 
deeds, 


146 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Are  theirs  in  prospect !  Little  care  have 
they 

What  old  man  dies,  what  child  is  born,  in 
deed  ; 

Their  day  is  coming,  and  their  sun  shall 
shine  1 

PYGMALION 

J*  MISTRESS  of  gods  and  men  !    I  have  been 

thine 

From  boy  to  man,  and  many  a  myrtle  rod 
Have  I  made  grow  upon  thy  sacred  sod, 
Nor  ever  have  I  pass'd  thy  white  shafts  nine 
Without  some  votive  offering  for  the  shrine, 
Carv'd  beryl  or  chas'd  bloodstone  ;  —  aid 

me  now, 

And  I  will  live  to  fashion  for  thy  brow 
Heart-breaking  priceless  things  :  oh,  make 

her  mine." 

Venus  inclin'd   her  ear,  and  through  the 

Stone 
Forthwith  slid  warmth  like  spring  through 

sapling-stems, 
And   lo,  the   eyelid   stirr'd,    beneath   had 

grown 

The  tremulous  light  of  life,  and  all  the  hems 
Of  her  zon'd  peplos  shook.  Upon  his  breast 
She  sank,  by  two  dread  gifts  at  once  op- 

press'd. 

MY   MOTHER 

THERE  was  a  gather'd  stillness  in  the  room : 
Only  the  breathing  of  the  great  sea  rose 
From  far  off,  aiding  that  profound  repose, 
With  regular  pulse  and  pause  within  the 

gloom 

Of  twilight,  as  if  some  impending  doom 
Was  now  approaching  ;  —  I  sat  moveless 

there. 
Watching  with  tears  and  thoughts  that  were 

like  prayer, 
Till  the  hour  struck,  —  the  thread  dropp'd 

from  the  loom  ; 
And  the  Bark  pass'd  in  which  freed  souls 

are  borne. 
The  dear  stilPd  face  lay  there  ;  that  sound 

forlorn 

Continued  ;  I  rose  not,  but  long  sat  by  : 
And  now  my  heart  oft  hears  that  sad  sea 
shore, 

When  she  is  in  the  far-off  land,  and  I 
Wait  the  dark  sail  returning  yet  once  more. 


THE   NORNS   WATERING 
YGGDRASILL 

(FOR  A  PICTURE) 

WITHIN  the  unchanging  twilight 
Of  the  high  land  of  the  gods, 

Between  the  murmuring  fountain 
And  the  Ash-tree,  tree  of  trees, 

The  Norns,  the  terrible  maidens, 
For  evermore  come  and  go, 

Yggdrasill  the  populous  Ash-tree, 
Whose  leaves  embroider  heaven, 

Fills  all  the  gray  air  with  music  — 
To  Gods  and  to  men  sweet  sounds, 

But  speech  to  the  fine-ear'd  maidens 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

That  way  to  their  doomstead  thrones 

The  Aesir  ride  each  day, 
And  every  one  bends  to  the  saddle 

As  they  pass  beneath  the  shade  ; 
Even  Odin,  the  strong  All-father, 
Bends  to  the  beautiful  maidens 

Who  cease  not  to  come  and  go. 

The  tempest  crosses  the  high  boughs, 
The  great  snakes  heave  below, 

The  wolf,  the  boar,  and  antler'd  harts 
Delve  at  the  life-giving  roots, 

But  all  of  them  fear  the  wise  maidens, 

The  wise-hearted  water-bearers 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

And  men  far  away,  in  the  night-hours 
To  the  north- wind  listening,  hear  ; 

They  hear  the  howl  of  the  were-wolf, 
And  know  he  hath  felt  the  sting 

Of  the  eyes  of  the  potent  maidens 
Who  sleeplessly  come  and  go. 

They  hear  on  the  wings  of  the  north-wind 
A  sound  as  of  three  that  sing  ; 

And  the  skald,  in  the  blae  mist  wandering 
High  on  the  midland  fell, 

Heard  the  very  words  of  the  o'ersong 
Of  the  Norns  who  come  and  go. 

But  alas  for  the  ears  of  mortals 

Chance-hearing  that  fate-laden  song  ! 

The  bones  of  the  skald  lie  there  still  : 
For  the  speech  of  the  leaves  of  the  Tree 

Is  the  song  of  the  three  Queen-maidens 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 


SCOTT— LINTON 


'47 


TO   THE    DEAD 
(A  PARAPHRASE) 

GONE  art  thou  ?  gone,  and  is  the  light  of 

day 
Still  shining,  is  my  hair  not  touch'd  with 

gray  ? 

But  evening  draweth  nigh,  I  pass  the  door, 
And  see  thee  walking  on  the  dim-lit  shore. 

Gone,  art  thou?  gone,  and  weary  on  the 

brink 
Of  Lethe  waiting  there.     O  do  not  drink, 


Drink  not,  forget  not,  wait  a  little  while, 
I  shall  he  with  thee  ;  we  again  may  smile. 

HERO-WORSHIP 

How  would  the  centuries  long  asunder 
Look  on  their  sires  with  angry  wonder, 
Could  some  strong  necromantic  power 
Revive  them  for  one  spectral  hour  i 
Bondsmen  of  the  past  are  we, — 
Predestin'd  bondsmen  :  could  we  see 
The  dead  now  deified,  again 
Peering  among  environing  men, 
We  might  be  free. 


Slintou 


EVICTION  i 

LONG  years  their  cabin  stood 

Out  on  the  moor  ; 
More  than  one  sorrow-brood 

Pass'd  through  their  door  ; 
Ruin  them  over-cast, 
Worse  than  one  wintry  blast  ; 
Famine's  plague  follow'd  fast  : 

God  help  the  poor  ! 

There  on  that  heap  of  fern, 

Gasping  for  breath, 
Lieth  the  wretched  ke'rn, 

Waiting  for  death  : 
Famine  had  brought  him  low  ; 
Fever  had  caught  him  so,  — 
O  thou  sharp-grinding  woe, 

Outwear  thy  sheath  ! 

Dying,  or  living  here  — 
Which  is  the  worse  ? 

Misery's  heavy  tear, 

Back  to  thy  source  ! 

Who  dares  to  lift  her  head 

Up  from  the  scarcely  dead  ? 

Who  pulls  the  crazy  shed 
Down  on  the  corse  ? 

What  though  some  rent  was  due, 
Hast  thou  no  grace  ? 

So  may  God  pardon  you, 
Shame  of  your  race  ! 


What  though  that  home  may  be 
Wretched  and  foul  to  see, 
What  if  God  harry  thee 
Forth  from  His  face  ? 

Widow 'd  and  orphan'd  ones, 

Flung  from  your  rest ! 
Where  will  you  lay  your  bones  ? 

Bad  was  your  best. 
Out  on  the  dreary  road, 
Where  shall  be  their  abode  ? 
One  of  them  sleeps  with  God  : 

Where  are  the  rest  ? 

PATIENCE1 

BE  patient,  O  be  patient !     Put  your  ear 

against  the  earth  ; 
Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o*  the 

seed  has  birth  ; 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its 

little  way 
Till  it  parts  the  scarcely-broken  ground, 

and  the  blade  stands  up  in  the  day. 

Be  patient,  O   be  patient !  the  germs  of 

mighty  thought 
Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,  must 

underground  be  wrought  ; 
But,  as  sure  as  ever  there  's  a  Power  that 

makes  the  grass  appear, 
Our  land  shall  be  green  with  Liberty,  the 

blade-time  shall  be  here. 


1  From  his  early  Poem*  of  Freedom. 


148 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


Be  patient,  O  be  patient !  go  and  watch  the 

wheat-ears  grow, 
So  imperceptibly  that   ye   can   mark   nor 

change  nor  throe  : 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day  till  the  ear  is 

fully  grown  ; 
And  then   again   day  after   day,   till   the 

ripen'd  field  is  brown. 

Be  patient,  O  be  patient !  though  yet  our 

hopes  are  green, 
The    harvest-field  of    Freedom    shall    be 

crown 'd  with  the  sunny  sheen. 
Be   ripening,   be   ripening  !    mature   your 

silent  way 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with 

fire  on  Freedom's  harvest  day. 

OUR    CAUSE1 

So,  Freedom,  thy  great  quarrel  may  we 

serve, 

With  truest  zeal  that,  sensitive  of  blame, 
Ever  thy  holy  banner  would  preserve 
As  pure  as  woman's  love  or  knightly  fame. 

And  though  detraction's  flood  we  proudly 

breast, 

Or,  weakening,  sink  in  that  unfathonvd  sea, 
Ever  we  '11  keep  aloft  our  banner,  lest 
Even  the  black  spray  soil  its  purity. 

My  life  be  branded  and  my  name  be  flung 

To  infamy  ;  —  beloved,  I  will  wear 

Thy   beauty   on   my   shield,  till  even  the 

tongue 
Of  falsehood  echo  truth,  and  own  thee  fair. 

HEART   AND   WILL1 

OUR  England's  heart  is  sound  as  oak  ; 

Our  English  will  is  firm  ; 
And  through  our  actions  Freedom  spoke 

In  history's  proudest  term  : 
When  Blake  was  lord  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  Cromwell  rul'd  the  land, 
And  Milton's  words  were  shields  of  power 

To  stay  the  oppressor's  hand. 

Our  England's  heart  is  yet  as  sound, 

As  firm  our  English  will  ; 
And  tyrants,  be  they  cowl'd  or  crown'd, 

Shall  find  us  fearless  still. 
And  though  our  Vane  be  in  his  tomb, 

Though  Hampden's  blood  is  cold, 

1  From  his  early 


Their  spirits  live  to  lead  our  doom 
As  in  the  days  of  old. 

Our  England's  heart  is  stout  as  oak  ; 

Our  English  will  as  brave 
As  when  indignant  Freedom  spoke 

From  Eliot's  prison  grave. 
And  closing  yet  again  with  Wrong, 

A  world  in  arms  shall  see 
Our  England  foremost  of  the  strong 

And  first  among  the  free. 

FROM  "A  THRENODY:  IN 
MEMORY  OF  ALBERT  DARASZ " 

O  BLESSED  Dead  !  beyond  all  earthly  pains: 
Beyond  the  calculation  of  low  needs  ; 
Thy  growth  no  longer  chok'd  by  earthly 

weeds  ; 
Thy  spirit   clear'd   from   care's   corrosive 

chains. 

O  blessed  Dead  !  O  blessed  Life-in-death, 
Transcending  all  life's  poor  decease  of 
breath ! 

Thou  walkest  not  upon  some  desolate  moor 
In  the  storm-wilderhig  midnight,  when 

thine  own, 
Thy  trusted  friend,  hath  lagg'd  and  left 

thee  lone. 

He  knows  not  poverty  who,  being  poor, 
Hath  still  one  friend.     But  he  who  fain 

had  kept 
The  comrade  whom  his  zeal  hath  over- 

stept. 

Thou  sufferest  not  the  friendly  cavilling 
Impugning  motive  ;  nor  that  worse  than 

spear 
Of  f oeman,  —  biting  doubt  of  one  most 

dear 

Laid  in  thy  deepest  heart,  a  barbed  sting 
Never  to  be  withdrawn.     For  we  were 

friends  : 
Alas  !  and  neither  to  the  other  bends. 

Thou  hast  escap'd  continual  falling  off 
Of  old  companions  ;  and  that  aching  void 
Of  the  proud  heart  which  has  been  over- 

buoy'd 
With  friendship's  idle  breath  ;  and  now  the 

scoff 

Of  failure  even  as  idly  passeth  by 
Thy     poor     remains  :  —  Thou    soaring 

through  the  sky. 
Poems  of  Freedom. 


WILLIAM   JAMES   LINTON 


149 


Knowing  no  more  that  malady  of  hope  — 

The    sickness    of    deferral,    thou    canst 
look 

Thorough  the  heavens  and,  healthily  pa 
tient,  brook 
Delay,  —  defeat.     For  in  thy  vision's  scope 

Most  distant  cometh.     We  might  see  it 
too, 

But    dizzying    faintness    overveils    our 
view. 

And  when  disaster  flings  us  in  the  dust, 
Or  when  we  wearily  drop  on  the  highway- 
side, 
Or  when  in  prison'd,  exil'd  depths  the 

pride 

Of  suffering  bows  its  head,  as  oft  it  must, 
We  cannot,  looking  on  thy  wasted  corse, 
Perceive   the   future.     Lend  us   of  thy 
force ! 

LOVE   AND   YOUTH 

Two  winged  genii  in  the  air 
I  greeted  as  they  pass'd  me  by  : 
The  one  a  bow  and  quiver  bare, 

The  other  shouted  joyously. 
Both  I  besought  to  stay  their  speed, 
But  never  Love  nor  Youth  had  heed 
Of  my  wild  cry. 

As  swift  and  careless  as  the  wind, 
Youth  fled,  nor  ever  once  look'd  back  ; 
A  moment  Love  was  left  behind, 

But  follow'd  soon  his  fellow's  track. 
Yet  loitering  at  my  heart  he  bent 
His  bow,  then  smil'd  with  changed  intent : 
The  string  was  slack. 

TOO    LATE 

I  YES  !  thou  art  fair,  and  I  had  lov'd 
If  we  in  earlier  hours  had  met  ; 
But  ere  tow'rd  me  thy  beauty  mov'd 

•  The  sun  of  Love's  brief  day  had  set. 

[  Though  I  may  watch  thy  opening  bloom, 
And  its  rich  promise  gladly  see, 
T  will  not  procrastinate  my  doom  : 
The  ripen'd  fruit  is  not  for  me. 

i     ' 

Yet,  had  I  shar'd  thy  course  of  years, . 
And  young  as  Hope  beheld  thy  charms, 
The  love  that  only  now  endears 
Perchance  had  given  thee  to  my  arms. 


Vain,  vain  regret !    Another  day 
Will  kiss  the  buds  of  younger  flowers, 
But  ne'er  will  evening  turn  away 
From  love  untimelier  than  ours. 

WEEP   NOT!  SIGH   NOT! 

WEEP  not !  tears  must  vainly  fall, 

Though  they  fall  like  ra 
Sorrow's  flood  shall  not  recall 
Love  's  dear  life  again. 

Vain  thy  tears, 
Vain  thy  sobs  ; 
As  vain  heart-throbs 

Of  lonely  years 
Since  thou  Love  hast  slain. 

Sigh  not !     As  a  passed  wind 

Is  but  sought  in  vain, 
Sighs  nor  groans  may  not  unbind 
Death's  unbroken  chain. 

Sighs  and  tears 
Nought  avail, 
Nor  cheeks  grown  pale 

In  lonely  years. 
Love  comes  not  again. 

SPRING  AND  AUTUMN 

"THOU  wilt  forget  me."    "Love  has  no 

such  word." 
The  soft  Spring  wind  is  whispering  to  the 

trees. 
Among  lime-blossoms  have  the  hovering 

bees 

Those  whispers  heard  ? 

"  Or  thou  wilt  change."    «  Love  changeth 

not,"  he  said. 
The   purple    heather  cloys    the  air  with 

scent 

Of  honey.     O'er  the  moors  her  lover  went, 
Nor  turn'd  his  head. 

LOVE'S   BLINDNESS 

THEY  call  her  fair.     I  do  not  know  : 

I  never  thought  to  look. 
Who  heeds  the  binder's  costliest  show 

When  be  may  read  the  book  ? 

What  need  a  list  of  parts  to  me 
When  I  possess  the  whole  ? 

Who  only  watch  her  eyes  to  see 
The  color  of  her  soul. 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


I  may  not  praise  her  mouth,  her  chin, 
Her  feet,  her  hands,  her  arms  : 

My  love  lacks  leisure  to  begin 
The  schedule  of  her  charms. 

To  praise  is  only  to  compare  : 
And  therefore  Love  is  blind. 

I  lov'd  before  I  was  aware 
Her  beauty  was  of  kind. 

THE   SILENCED   SINGER 

THE  nest  is  built,  the  song  hath  ceas'd  : 
The  minstrel  joineth  in  the  feast, 
So  singeth  not.     The  poet's  verse, 
Crippled  by  Hymen's  household  curse, 
Follows  no  more  its  hungry  quest. 
Well  if  Love's  feathers  line  the  nest. 

Yet  blame  not  that  beside  the  fire 
Love  hangeth  up  his  unstrung  lyre  ! 
How  sing  of  hope  when  Hope  hath  fled, 
Joy  whispering  lip  to  lip  instead  ? 


Or  how  repeat  the  tuneful  moan 
When  the  Obdurate  's  all  my  own  ? 

Love,  like  the  lark,  while  soaring  sings  : 
Wouldst  have  him  spread  again  his  wings  ? 
What  careth  he  for  higher  skies 
Who  on  the  heart  of  harvest  lies, 
And  finds  both  sun  and  firmament 
Clos'd  in  the  round  of  his  content  ? 

EPICUREAN 

IN  Childhood's  unsuspicious  hours 

The  fairies  crown'd  my  head  with  flowers. 

Youth  came  :  I  lay  at  Beauty's  feet ; 
She  smil'd  and  said  my  song  was  sweet. 

Then  Age,  and,  Love  no  longer  mine, 
My  brows  I  shaded  with  the  vine. 

With  flowers  and  love  and  wine  and  song, 
O  Death  !  life  hath  not  been  too  long. 


Utofccrt 

WE'LL  A'  GO  PU'  THE  HEATHER 

WE  'LL  a'  go  pu  the  heather, 
\  Our  byres  are  a'  to  theek  : 

Unless  the  peat-stack  get  a  hap, 

We  '11  a'  be  smoor'd  wi'  reek. 
Wi'  rantin'  sang  awa'  we  '11  gang, 

While  summer  skies  are  blue, 
To  fend  against  the  winter  cauld 

The  heather  we  will  pu'. 

I  like  to  pu'  the  heather, 

We  're  aye  sae  mirthf u'  where 
The*  sunshine  creeps  atour  the  crags, 

Like  ravell'd  golden  hair. 
Where  on  the  hill-tap  we  can  stand 

Wi'  joyfu'  heart  I  trow, 
And  mark  ilk  grassy  bank  and  holm, 

As  we  the  heather  pu'. 

I  like  to  pu'  the  heather, 

Where  harmless  lambkins  run, 
Or  lay  them  down  beside  the  burn 

Like  gowans  in  the  sun  ; 
Where  ilka  foot  can  tread  upon 

The  heath-flower  wet  wi'  dew, 
When  comes  the  starnie  ower  the  hill, 

While  we  the  heather  pu\ 


I  like  to  pu'  the  heather, 

For  ane  can  gang  awa', 
But  no  before  a  glint  o'  love 

On  some  ane's  e'e  doth  fa'. 
Sweet  words  we  dare  to  whisper  there, 

"  My  hinny  and  my  doo," 
Till  maistly  we  wi'  joy  could  greet 

As  we  the  heather  pu'. 

We  '11  a'  go  pu'  the  heather, 

For  at  yon  mountain  fit 
There  stands  a  broom  bush  by  a  burn, 

Where  twa  young  folk  can  sit  : 
He  meets  me  there  at  morning's  rise, 

My  beautiful  and  true. 
My  father  said  the  word  —  the  morn 

The  heather  we  will  pu'. 

BONNIE   BESSIE   LEE 

BONNIE   Bessie   Lee    had    a  face    fu*   o' 

smiles, 
And  mirth  round  her  ripe  lip  was  aye 

dancing  slee  ; 
And  light  was  the  footfa',  and  winsome  the 

wiles, 

0'  the  flower  o'  the  parochin  —  our  aiii 
Bessie  Lee. 


ROBERT   NICOLL 


Wi'  the  bairns  she  would  rin,  and  the  school 

laddies  paik, 
And  o'er  the  broomy  braes  like  a  fairy 

would  flee, 
Till  auld  hearts  grew  young  again  wi'  love 

for  her  sake  : 

There  was  life  in  the  blithe  blink  o' 
Bonnie  Bessie  Lee. 

She  grat  wi'  the  waefu',  and  laugh'd  wi' 

the  glad, 
And  light  as  the  wind  'mang  the  dancers 

was  she  ; 
a  tongue  that  could  jeer,  too,  the  little 

limmer  had, 

Whilk  keepit  aye  her  ain  side  for  Bonnie 
Bessie  Lee. 

she  whiles  had  a  sweetheart,  and  some 
times  had  twa  — 

A  limmer  o'  a  lassie  !  —  but,  atween  you 
and  me, 

jr  warm  wee  bit  heartie  she  ne'er  threw 
awa', 

Though  mony  a  ane  had  sought  it  frae 
Bonnie  Bessie  Lee. 

hit  ten  years  had  gane  since  I  gaz'd  on 
her  last, 

\  For  ten  years  had  parted  my  auld  hame 
and  me  ; 

And  I  said  to  myseP,  as  her  mither's  door 
I  past, 

I  "  Will  I  ever  get  anither  kiss  frae  Bon 
nie  Bessie  Lee  ?  " 

But  Time  changes  a'  thing  —  the  ill-natur'd 

loon  ! 
Were  it  ever  sae  rightly  he  '11  no  let  it 

be  ; 
Jut  I  rubbit  at  my  een,  and  I  thought  I 

would  swoon, 
How  the  carle  had  come  roun*  about  our 
ain  Bessie  Lee  ! 

The  wee  laughing  lassie  was  a  gudewife 

grown  auld, 
|i   Twa  weans  at  her  apron  and  ane  on  her 

knee  ; 
She   was   douce,   too,   and   wiselike  —  and 

wisdom  's  sae  cauld  : 
I  would  rather  ha'e  the  ither  ane  than 

this  Bessie  Lee  I 


THE   HERO 

MY  hero  is  na  deck'd  wi'  gowd, 

He  has  nae  glittering  state  ; 
Renown  upon  a  field  o  blood 

In  war  he  hasna  met. 
He  has  nae  siller  in  his  pouch, 

Nae  menials  at  his  ca' ; 
The  proud  o'  earth  frae  him  would  turn, 

And  bid  him  stand  awa'. 

His  coat  is  hame-spun  hodden-gray, 

His  shoon  are  clouted  sair, 
His  garments,  maist  unhero-like, 

Are  a'  the  waur  o'  wear  : 
His  limbs  are  strong — his  shoulders  broad, 

His  hands  were  made  to  plough  ; 
He  's  rough  without,  but  sound  within  ; 

His  heart  is  bauldly  true. 

He  toils  at  e'en,  he  toils  at  morn, 

His  wark  is  never  through  ; 
A  coming  life  o'  weary  toil 

Is  ever  in  his  view. 
But  on  he  trudges,  keeping  aye 

A  stout  heart  to  the  brae, 
And  proud  to  be  an  honest  man 

Until  his  dying  day. 

His  hame  a  hame  o'  happiness 

And  kindly  love  may  be  ; 
And  monie  a  nameless  dwelling-place 

Like  his  we  still  may  see. 
His  happy  altar-hearth  so  bright 

Is  ever  bleezing  there  ; 
And  cheerfu'  faces  round  it  set 

Are  an  unending  prayer. 

The  poor  man  in  his  humble  hame, 

Like  God,  who  dwells  aboon, 
Makes  happy  hearts  around  him  there, 

Sae  joyfu'  late  and  soon. 
His  toil  is  sair,  his  toil  is  lang  ; 

But  weary  nights  and  days, 
Hame  — happiness  akin  to  his  — 

A  hunder-fauld  repays. 

Go,  mock  at  conquerors  and  kings  f 

What  happiness  give  they  ? 
Go,  tell  the  painted  butterflies 

To  kneel  them  down  and  pray  ! 
Go,  stand  erect  in  manhood's  pride, 

Be  what  a  man  should  be, 
Then  come,  and  to  my  hero  bend 

Upon  the  grass  your  knee  ! 


POETS   OF  THE   NEW   DAY 


a?arft£  Wilkg  Call 


THE   PEOPLE'S    PETITION 

0  LORDS  !  O  rulers  of  the  nation  ! 
O  softly  cloth'd  !  O  richly  fed  ! 
O  men  of  wealth  and  noble  station  1 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

For  you  we  are  content  to  toil, 
For  you  our  blood  like  rain  is  shed  ; 
Then,  lords  and  rulers  of  the  soil, 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

Tour  silken  robes,  with  endless  care, 
Still  weave  we  ;  still  uncloth'd,  unfed, 
We  make  the  raiment  that  ye  wear  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

In  the  red  forge-light  do  we  stand, 
We  early  leave  —  late  seek  our  bed, 
Tempering  the  steel  for  your  right  hand  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

We  sow  your  fields,  ye  reap  the  fruit ; 
We  live  in  misery  and  in  dread  ; 
Hear  but  our  prayer,  and  we  are  mute  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

Throughout  old  England's  pleasant  fields 
There  is  no  spot  where  we  may  tread, 
No  house  to  us  sweet  shelter  yields  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

Fathers  are  we  ;  we  see  our  sons, 
We  see  our  fair  young  daughters,  dead  ; 
Then  hear  us,  O  ye  mighty  ones  ! 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

'T  is  vain  —  with  cold,  unfeeling  eye 
Ye  gaze  on  us,  uncloth'd,  unfed  ; 
'T  is  vain  —  ye  will  not  hear  our  cry, 
Nor  give  us  daily  bread. 

We  turn  from  you,  our  lords  by  birth, 
To  him  who  is  our  Lord  above  ; 
We  all  are  made  of  the  same  earth, 
Are  children  of  one  love. 

Then,  Father  of  this  world  of  wonders, 
Judge  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Lord  of  the  lightnings  and  the  thunders, 
Give  us  our  daily  bread  I 


SUMMER  DAYS 

IN  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We    walk'd,    two    friends,    in    field    and 

wood  ; 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong, 
And  life  lay  round  us,  fair  as  good, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  stray'd  from  morn  till  evening  came, 
We  gather'd  flowers,  and  wove  us  crowns  ; 
We  walk'd  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs, 
And  always  wish'd  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  leap'd  the  hedgerow,  cross'd  the  brook  ; 
And  still  her  voice  flow'd  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 
And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze 
We  revell'd,  many  a  glorious  June, 
While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We    pluck'd   wild   strawberries,  ripe   and 

red, 

Or  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song, 
On  golden  nectar,  snow-white  bread, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  lov'd,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not, 
For  loving  seem'd  like  breathing  then  ; 
We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men, 
And  dream'd  of  gods  in  grove  and  grot 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone  ; 
I  see  her  not,  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood, 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs  ; 
And  half  I  see  the  crimson  hood, 
The  radiant  hair,  the  calm  glad  eyes, 
That  charm'd  me  in  life's  summer  mood 


WELDON  — EMILY   BRONTE 


'53 


In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 

I  love  her  as  I  lov'd  of  old  ; 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong, 


For    love    brings    back    those    hours    of 

gold, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 


Cf)arle£  KDrtoon 


THE  POEM  OF  THE  UNIVERSE 

THE  Poem  of  the  Universe 
Nor  rhythm  lias  nor  rhyme  ; 

Some  God  recites  the  wondrous  song 
A  stanza  at  a  time. 

Great  deeds  is  he  foredoom'd  to  do, 
With  Freedom's  flag  uiifurl'd, 

Who  hears  the  echo  of  that  song 
As  it  goes  down  the  world. 


Great  words  he  is  compell'd  to  speak 
Who  understands  the  song  ; 

He  rises  up  like  fifty  men, 
Fifty  good  men  and  strong. 

A  stanza  for  each  century  : 
Now  heed  it,  all  who  can  1 

Who  hears  it,  he,  and  only  he, 
Is  the  elected  man. 


SONG 

THE  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells, 

The  moor-lark  in  the  air, 
The  bee  among  the  heather  bells 

That  hide  my  lady  fair. 

wild  deer  browse  above  her  breast ; 
The  wild  birds  raise  their  brood  ; 
Lnd  they,  her  smiles  of  love  caress'd, 
Have  left  her  solitude. 

I  ween  that,  when  the  grave's  dark  wall 

Did  first  her  form  retain, 
They  thought  their  hearts  could  ne'er  recall 

The  light  of  joy  again. 

They  thought  the  tide  of  grief  would  flow 
Uncheck'd  through  future  years  ; 

But  where  is  all  their  anguish  now, 
And  where  are  all  their  tears  ? 

Well,  let  them  fight  for  honor's  breath, 

Or  pleasure's  shade  pursue  : 
The  dweller  in  the  land  of  death 

Is  changed  and  careless  too. 

And,  if  their  eyes  should  watch  and  weep 
Till  sorrow's  source  were  dry, 

would  not,  in  her  tranquil  sleep, 
Return  a  single  sigh. 


25ronte 

Blow,  west-wind,  by  the  lonely  mound, 
And  murmur,  summer  streams  t 

There  is  no  need  of  other  sound 
To  soothe  my  lady's  dreams. 

THE   OLD   STOIC 

RICHES  I  hold  in  light  esteem, 
And  Love  I  laugh  to  scorn  ; 

And  lust  of  fame  was  but  a  dream 
That  vanish'd  with  the  morn  ; 

And  if  I  pray,  the  only  prayer 
That  moves  my  lips  for  me 

Is,  "  Leave  the  heart  that  now  I  bear, 
And  give  me  liberty  !  " 

Yes,  as  my  swift  days  near  their  goal, 

'T  is  all  that  I  implore  : 
In  life  and  death  a  chainless  soul, 

With  courage  to  endure. 

WARNING   AND  REPLY 

IN  the  earth— the  earth— thou  shalt  be  iaid 
A  gray  stone  standing  over  thee  ; 

Black  mould  beneath  thee  spread, 
And  black  mould  to  cover  thee. 

"  Well  —  there  is  rest  there, 
So  fast  come  thy  prophecy  • 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


The  time  when  my  sunny  hair 

Shall  with  grass  roots  entwined  be." 

But  cold  —  cold  is  that  resting-place, 
Shut  out  from  joy  and  liberty, 

And  all  who  lov'd  thy  living  face 
Will  shrink  from  it  shudderingly. 

"  Not  so.  Here  the  world  is  chill, 
And  sworn  friends  fall  from  me  ; 

But  there  —  they  will  own  me  still, 
And  prize  my  memory." 

Farewell,  then,  all  that  love, 

All  that  deep  sympathy  : 
Sleep  on  :  Heaven  laughs  above, 

Earth  never  misses  thee. 

Turf-sod  and  tombstone  drear 

Part  human  company  ; 
One  heart  breaks  only  —  here, 

But  that  heart  was  worthy  thee  I 

STANZAS 

OFTEN  rebuk'd,  yet  always  back  returning 
To  those  first  feelings  that  were  born  with 

me, 
And  leaving  busy  chase  of    wealth    and 

learning 

For  idle  dreams  of  things  which  cannot 
be; 

To-day,  I  will  seek  not  the  shadowy  region  ; 

Its  unsustaining  vastness  waxes  drear  ; 
And  visions  rising,  legion  after  legion, 

Bring  the  unreal  world  too  strangely  near. 

1 11  walk,  but  not  in  old  heroic  traces, 
And  not  in  paths  of  high  morality, 

And  not  among  the  half-distinguish'd  faces, 
The  clouded  forms  of  long-past  history. 

1 11  walk  where  my  own  nature  would  be 

leading : 

It  vexes  me  to  choose  another  guide  : 
Where  the  gray  flocks  in  ferny  glens  are 

feeding ; 

Where  the  wild  wind  blows  on  the  moun 
tain  side. 


What  have  those  lonely  mountains  worth 

revealing  ? 
More  glory  and  more  grief  than  I  can 

tell: 
The  earth  that  wakes  one  human  heart  to 

feeling 

Can  centre  both  the  worlds  of  Heaven 
and  Hell. 

HER   LAST    LINES 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled 

sphere  : 

I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me   from 
fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity  ! 

Life  —  that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I  —  undying  Life  —  have  power  in  thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts  :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  wither'd  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity  ; 

So  surely  anchor'd  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,   creates,   and 
rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceas'd  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render 

void  : 

Thou  —  Thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And   what   Thou   art  may  never  be   de- 
stroy'd. 


POETS   OF   THE  NEW   DAY 


'55 


3Htm 


(Slctocg) 


("GEORGE  ELIOT") 


O  MAY  I  JOIN   THE  CHOIR  IN 
VISIBLE" 

Longum  illud.teinpus,  quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movet, 
juu  hoc  exiguum.  —  Cicero,  ad  A:t  ,  xii.  18. 

MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
minds  made  better  by  their  presence  : 

live 

In  pulses  stirr'd  to  generosity, 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 
In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night 

like  stars, 
with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's 

search 
Co  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
jathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
rith  growing   sway    the  growing   life   of 

man. 

ffio  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  fail'd,  and  ago- 

niz'd 

With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child, 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolv'd  ; 
Its   discords,   quench'd    by    meeting   har 
monies, 

Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobb'd  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watch'd   to  ease  the  burthen  of  the 

world, 

Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better,  —  saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shap'd  it  forth  before  the  multitude, 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To   higher    reverence    more    mix'd    with 

love,  — 
That    better   self    shall    live    till    human 

Time 

Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gather'd  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which    martyr'd  men    have   made    more 
glorious 


For  us  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  soul* 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty, 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffus'd, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense  ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


SONGS    FROM     "THE    SPANISH 
GYPSY " 

THE  DARK 

SHOULD  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 

Say,  O  song, 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  ? 

Dark  the  night,  with  breath  all  flow'rs, 
And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 
With  ravishment  the  listening  hours  : 
Whisperings,  wooings, 
Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 
In   low-ton'd    rhythm    that  love's   aching 

stills. 

Dark  the  night, 
Yet  is  she  bright, 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star, 
Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  love, 
From  some  unknown  afar. 
O  radiant  Dark  !  O  darkly-fostered  ray  ! 
Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Dty. 

SONG  OF  THE  zfNCALI 

ALL  things  journey  :  sun  and  moon, 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 

Night  and  all  her  stars  : 
Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 

Round  they  journey, 
Come  and  go. 

We  go  with  them  ! 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Zmcali's  loved  home. 

Earth  is  good,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  ashen  roots  and  wakes 

Hungry  nostrils  glad  ; 
Then  we  run  till  we  are  mad, 

lake  the  horses, 


156 


POETS   OF   THE  NEW   DAY 


And  we  cry, 
None  shall  catch  us  ! 
Swift  winds  wing  us  —  we  are  free  — 
Drink  the  air  —  we  Zfncali  1 

Falls  the  snow  :  the  pine-branch  split, 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it  flit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run, 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  a  sun 

In  the  dark  tent  : 
O  warm  dark  ! 

Warm  as  conies  ! 


Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  ! 
Who  the  Zfncali  shall  harm  ? 

Onward  journey  :  fires  are  spent ; 
Sunward,  sunward  !  lift  the  tent, 

Run  before  the  rain, 
Through  the  pass,  along  the  plain. 

Hurry,  hurry, 
Lift  us,  wind  ! 

Like  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Zfncali's  loved  home. 


EARTH'S   BURDENS 

WHY  grpaning  so,  thou  solid  earth, 
Though  sprightly  summer  cheers  ? 

Or  is  thine  old  heart  dead  to  mirth  ? 
Or  art  thou  bow'd  by  years  ? 

"  Nor  am  I  cold  to  summer's  prime, 
Nor  knows  my  heart  decay  ; 

Nor  am  I  bow'd  by  countless  time, 
Thou  atom  of  a  day ! 

"  I  lov'd  to  list  when  tree  and  tide 

Their  gentle  music  made, 
And  lightly  on  my  sunny  side 

To  feel  the  plough  and  spade. 

"  I  lov'd  to  hold  my  liquid  way 
Through  floods  of  living  light ; 

To  kiss  the  sun's  bright  hand  by  day, 
And  count  the  stars  by  night. 

**  I  lov'd  to  hear  the  children's  glee, 

Around  the  cottage  door, 
And  peasant's  song  right  merrily 

The  glebe  come  ringing  o'er. 


"  But  man  upon  my  back  has  roll'd 

Such  heavy  loads  of  stone, 
I  scarce  can  grow  the  harvest  gold  : 

'Tis  therefore  that  I  groan. 

"  And  when  the  evening  dew  sinks  mild 

Upon  my  quiet  breast, 
I  feel  the  tear  of  the  houseless  child 

Break  burning  on  my  rest. 

"  Oh  !  where  are  all  the  hallow'd  sweets, 

The  harmless  joys  I  gave  ? 
The  pavement  of  your  sordid  streets 

Are  stones  on  Virtue's  grave. 

"  And  thick  and  fast  as  autumn  leaves 

My  children  drop  away, 
A  gathering  of  unripen'd  sheaves 

By  premature  decay. 

"  Gaunt  misery  holds  the  cottage  door, 

And  olden  honor 's  flown, 
And  slaves  are  slavish  more  and  more  : 

'T  is  therefore  that  I  groan." 


THE   WRECK 

ITS  masts  of  might,  its  sails  so  free, 
Had  borne  the  scatheless  keel 
Through  many  a  day  of  darken'd  sea, 


And  many  a  storm  of  steel  $ 

When  all  the  winds  were  calm,  it  met 

(With  home-returning  prore) 

With  the  lull 

Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 


RUSKIN— JONES 


'57 


The  crest  of  the  conqueror 
On  many  a  brow  was  bright  •; 
The  dew  of  many  an  exile's  eye 
Had  dimm'd  the  dancing  sight  ; 
And  for  love  and  for  victory 
One  welcome  was  in  store. 

In  the  lull 

Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 

The  voices  ofjthe  night  are  mute 
Beneath  the  moon's  eclipse  ; 
The  silence  of  the  fitful  flute 
Is  on  the  dying  lips. 
The  silence  of  my  lonely  heart 


Is  kept  forevermore 
In  the  lull 
Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 

TRUST  THOU   THY   LOVE 

TRUST  thou  thy  Love  :  if  she  be  proud,  is 

she  not  sweet  ? 
Trust  thou  thy  Love  :  if  she  be  mute,  is 

she  not  pure  ? 
Lay  thou  thy  soul  full  in  her  hands,  low  at 

her  feet ;  — 

Fail,   Sun  and  Breath!  — yet,  for  thy 
peace,  she  shall  endure. 


SONG   OF   THE   KINGS   OF 
GOLD 

OURS  all  are  marble  halls, 
Amid  untrodden  groves 
Where  music  ever  calls, 
Where  faintest  perfume  roves  ; 
And  thousands  toiling  moan, 
That  gorgeous  robes  may  fold 
The  haughty  forms  alone 
Of  us  —  the  Kings  of  Gold. 

(Chorus.) 

We  cannot  count  our  slaves, 
Nothing  bounds  our  sway, 
Our  will  destroys  and  saves, 
We  let,  we  create,  we  slay. 
Ha  !  ha  !  who  are  Gods  ? 

Purple,  and  crimson,  and  blue, 
Jewels,  and  silks,  and  pearl, 
All  splendors  of  form  and  hue, 
Our  charm'd  existence  furl ; 
When  dared  shadow  dim 
The  glow  in  our  winecups  roll'd  ? 
When  droop'd  the  banquet-hymn 
Rais'd  for  the  Kings  of  Gold  ? 
(Chorus.) 

The  earth,  the  earth,  is  ours  I 
Its  corn,  its  fruits,  its  wine, 
Its  sun,  its  rain,  its  flowers, 
Ours,  all,  all  i  —  cannot  shine 


One  sunlight  ray,  but  where 
Our  mighty  titles  hold  ; 
Wherever  life  is,  there 
Possess  the  Kings  of  Gold. 
(Chorus.) 

And  all  on  earth  that  lives, 
Woman,  and  man,  and  child, 
Us  trembling  homage  gives  ; 
Aye  trampled,  sport-defil'd, 
None  dareth  raise  one  frown, 
Or  slightest  questioning  hold  ; 
Our  scorn  but  strikes  them  down 
To  adore  the  Kings  of  Gold. 
(Chorus.) 


In  a  glorious  sea  of  hate, 

Eternal  rocks  we  stand  ; 

Our  joy  is  our  lonely  state, 

And  our  trust,  our  own  right  hand  ; 

We  frown,  and  nations  shrink  ; 

They  curse,  but  our  swords  are  old  ; 

And  the  wine  of  their  rage  deep  drink 

The  dauntless  Kings  of  Gold. 

(Chorus.) 

We  cannot  count  our  slaves, 
Nothing  bounds  our  sway, 
Our  will  destroys  and  saves, 
We  let,  we  create,  we  slay. 
Ha!  ha!  who  are  Gods? 


158 


THE   RHAPSODISTS 


THE  FACE 

THESE  dreary  hours  of  hopeless  gloom 
Are  all  of  life  I  fain  would  know  ; 
I  would  but  feel  my  life  consume, 
While  bring  they  back  mine  ancient  woe  ; 
For,  midst  the  clouds  of  grief  and  shame 
That  crowd  around,  one  face  I  see  ; 
It  is  the  face  I  dare  not  name, 
The  face  none  ever  name  to  me. 

I  saw  it  first  when  in  the  dance 
Borne,  like  a  falcon,  down  the  hall, 
He  stay'd  to  cure  some  rude  mischance 
My  girlish  deeds  had  caused  to  fall ; 
He  sinil'd,  he  danced  with  me,  he  made 
A  thousand  ways  to  soothe  my  pain  ; 
And  sleeplessly  all  night  I  pray'd 
That  I  might  see  that  smile  again. 

I  saw  it  next,  a  thousand  times  ; 
And  every  time  its  kind  smile  near'd  ; 
Oh  !  twice  ten  thousand  glorious  chimes 
My  heart  rang  out,  when  he  appear'd  ; 


What  was  I  then,  that  others'  thought 
Could  alter  so  my  thought  of  him; 
That  I  could  be  by  others  taught 
His  image  from  my  heart  to  dim  ! 

I  saw  it  last,  when  black  and  white 
Shadows  went  struggling  o'er  it  wild  ; 
When  he  regain'd  my  long-lost  sight, 
And  I  with  cold  obeisance  smil'd  ;  — 
I  did  not  see  it  fade  from  life  ; 
My  letters  o'er  his  heart  they  found  ; 
They  told  me  in  death's  last  hard  strife 
His  dying  hands  around  them  wound. 

Although  my  scorn  that  face  did  maim, 
Even  when  its  love  would  not  depart  ; 
Although  my  laughter  smote  its  shame 
And  drave  it  swording  through  his  heart  ; 
Although  its  death-gloom  grasps  my  brain 
With  crushing  unrefus'd  despair  ; 
That  I  may  dream  that  face  again 
God  still  must  find  alone  my  prayer. 


THE    RHAPSODISTS 


FROM   "FESTUS" 

YOUTH,  LOVE,  AND  DEATH 

Lucifer.   And  we  might  trust  these  youths 

and  maidens  fair, 
The  world  was  made  for  nothing  but  love, 

love. 

Now  I  think  it  was  made  most  to  be  burn'd. 
Festus.     The   night   is   glooming  on  us. 

It  is  the  hour 

When  lovers  will  speak  lowly,  for  the  sake 
Of  being  nigh  each  other  ;  and  when  love 
Shoots  up  the  eye,  like  morning  on  the  east, 
Making  amends  for  the  long  northern  night 
They  pass'd,  ere   either  knew   the   other 

lov'd  ; 
The  hour  of  hearts  !     Say  gray-beards  what 

they  please, 

The  heart  of  age  is  like  an  emptied  wine- 
cup  ; 


Its  life  lies  in  a  heel-tap  :  how  can  age 

judge  ? 
'T  were  a  waste  of  time  to  ask  how  they 

wasted  theirs  ; 
But  while  the  blood  is  bright,  breath  sweet, 

skin  smooth, 

And  limbs  all  made  to  minister  delight  ; 
Ere  yet  we  have  shed  our  locks,  like  trees1 

their  leaves, 

And  we  stand  staring  bare  into  the  air  ; 
He  is  a  fool  who  is  not  for  love  and  beauty 
It  is  I,  the  young,  to  the  young  speak.     I 

am  of  them, 
And  always  shall  be.     What  are  years  to 

me  ? 
You  traitor  years,  that  fang  the  hands  ye 

have  lick'd, 
Vicelike  ;  henceforth  your  venom-sacs  art 

gone. 
I  have  conquer'd.      Ye  shall  perish  :  yea, 

shall  fall 


PHILIP   JAMES   BAILEY 


'59 


Like    birdlets    beaten    by   some  resistless 

storm 
'Gainst  a  dead  wall,  dead.     I  pity  ye,  that 

such 
Mean  things  should  have  rais'd  in  man  or 

hope  or  fear ; 
Those  Titans   of   the   heart  that   fight  at 

heaven, 
And  sleep,  by  fits,  on  fire,  whose  slightest 

stir's 
An  earthquake.     I  am  bound  and  bless'd 

to  youth. 

None  but  the  brave  and  beautiful  can  love. 
Oh  give  me   to  the   young,  the  fair,  the 

free, 
The  brave,  who  would  breast   a  rushing, 

burning  world 
Which  came  between  him  and  his  heart's 

delight. 
Mad  must  I   be,  and  what 's  the  world  ? 

Like  mad 
For  itself.     And  I  to  myself  am  all  things, 

too. 
If  my   heart  thunder'd   would   the  world 

rock?     Well, 
Then  let  the  mad  world  fight  its  shadow 

down. 
Soon  there  may  be  nor  sun  nor  world  nor 

shadow. 
But  thou,  my  blood,  my  bright  red  running 

soul, 

Rejoice  thou  like  a  river  in  thy  rapids. 
Rejoice,  thou  wilt  never  pale  with  age,  nor 

thin  ; 

But  in  thy  full  dark  beauty,  vein  by  vein 
Serpent-wise,  me  encircling,  shalt  to  the  end 
Throb,  bubble,  sparkle,   laugh,  and  leap' 

along. 
Make  merry,  heart,  while  the  holidays  shall 

last. 
Better  than  daily  dwine,  break  sharp  with 

life  ; 
Like  a  stag,  suustruck,  top  thy  bounds  and 

die. 
Heart,  I  could  tear  thee  out,  thou  fool,  thou 

fool, 

And  strip  thee  into  shreds  upon  the  wind. 
What  have  I  done  that  thou  shouldst  maze 

me  thus  ? 
Lucifer.     Let   us   away  ;   we   have   had 

enough  of  hearts. 
Festm.     Oh  for  the  young  heart  like  a 

fountain  playing, 
linging  its  bright  fresh  feelings  up  to  the 

skies 


It  loves  and  strives  to  reach  ;  strives,  lores 

in  vain. 

It  is  of  earth,  and  never  meant  for  IIIUPS^ 
Let  us  love  both  and  die.     Tin-  .sphinx-like 

heart 
Loathes  life  the  moment  that  life's  riddle 

is  read. 

The  knot  of  our  existence  solv'd,  all  thing* 
Loose-ended  lie,  and  useless.  Life  is  had, 
And  lo  !  we  sigh,  and  say,  can  this  be  all  ? 
It  is  not  what  we  thought ;  it  is  very  well, 
But  we  want  something  more.  There  is 

but  death. 
And  when  we  have  said  and  seen,  done,  had, 

enjoy'd 
And  suffer'd,  maybe,  all  we  have  wish'd  or 

fear'd, 

From  fame  to  ruin,  and  from  love  to  loath- 
ing. 
There  can  come   but  one  more  change  — 

try  it  —  death. 

Oh  t  it  is  great  to  feel  that  nought  of  earth, 
Hope,  love,  nor  dread,  nor  care  for  what 's 

to  come, 

Can  check  the  royal  lavishment  of  life  ; 
But,  like  a  streamer  strown  upon  the  wind, 
We  fling  our  souls  to  fate  and  to  the  future. 
For  to  die  young  is  youth's  divinest  gift ; 
To  pass  from  one  world  fresh  into  another, 
Ere   change  hath  lost  the  charm  of  soft 

regret, 

And  feel  the  immortal  impulse  from  within 
Which  makes  the  coming  life  cry  alway, 

on  I 
And  follow  it  while  strong,  is  heaven's  last 

mercy. 

There  is  a  fire-fly  in  the  south,  but  shines 
When  on  the  wing.      So  is't  with   mind. 

When  once 
We  rest,  we  darken.     On  !  saith  God  to  the 

soul, 

As  unto  the  earth  for  ever.     On  it  goes, 
A  rejoicing  native  of  the  infinite, 
As  is  a  bird,  of  air  ;  an  orb,  of  heaven. 

THE  POET 

Festus.  Thanks,  thanks!  With  the 
Muse  is  always  love  and  light, 

And  self-sworn  loyalty  to  truth.    For  know, 

Poets  are  all  who  love,  who  feel,  great 
truths, 

And  tell  them  :  and  the  truth  of  truths  • 
love. 

There  was  a  time  —  oh,  I  remember  well  I 


i6o 


THE   RHAPSODISTS 


When,  like  a  sea-shell  with   its   sea-born 

strain, 

My  soul  aye  rang  with  music  of  the  lyre, 
And  my  heart  shed  its  lore  as  leaves  their 

dew  — 

A  honey  dew,  and  throve  on  what  it  shed. 
All   things  I  lov'd  ;   but   song  I  lov'd  in 

chief. 

Imagination  is  the  air  of  mind, 
Judgment  its  earth  and  memory  its  main, 
•  Passion  its  fire.     I  was  at  home  in  heaven. 
Swiftlike,   I    liv'd   above  ;    once  touching 

earth, 
The  meanest  thing  might  master  me  :  long 

wings 
But  baffled.     Still   and  still   I   harp'd  on 

song. 

Oh  !  to  create  within  the  mind  is  bliss, 
And  shaping  forth  the   lofty  thought,    or 

lovely, 
We  seek  not,  need  not  heaven  :  and  when 

the  thought, 
Cloudy  and  shapeless,  first  forms  on  the 

mind, 

Slow  darkening  into  some  gigantic  make, 
How  the  heart  shakes  with  pride  and  fear, 

as  heaven 
Quakes  under    its    own    thunder  ;   or   as 

might, 

Of  old,  the  mortal  mother  of  a  god, 
When  first  she  saw  him  lessening  up  the 

skies. 

And  I  began  the  toil  divine  of  verse, 
Which,  like  a  burning  bush,  doth  guest  a 

god. 
But  this   was    only   wing-flapping  —  not 

flight ; 

The  pawing  of  the  courser  ere  he  win  ; 
Till  by  degrees,  from  wrestling  with  my 

soul, 
I  gather'd    strength    to    keep   the    fleet 

thoughts  fast, 
&nd  made  them  bless  me.     Yes,  there  was 

a  time 
When  tomes  of  ancient  song  held  eye  and 

heart ; 
Were  the  sole  lore  I  reck'd  of  :  the  great 

•  bards 
Of  Greece,  of  Rome,  and  mine  own  master 

land, 

And  they  who  in  the  holy  book  are  death 
less  ; 

Men  who  have  vulgariz'd  sublimity, 
And  bought  up  truth  for  the  nations  ;  held 

it  whole  ; 


Men   who  have    forged  gods  —  utter'd  — » 

made  them  pass  : 

Sons  of  the  sons  of  God,  who  in  olden  days 
Did  leave  their  passionless  heaven  for  earth 

and  woman, 

Brought  an  immortal  to  a  mortal  breast, 
And,  rainbowlike  the  sweet  earth  clasping,, 

left 

A  bright  precipitate  of  soul,  which  lives 
Ever,  and  through  the  lines  of  sullen  men, 
The  dumb  array  of  ages,  speaks  for  all  ; 
Flashing  by  fits,  like  fire  from  an  enemy's 

front  ; 
Whose  thoughts,  like  bars  of  sunshine  in 

shut  rooms, 
Mid   gloom,  all   glory,  win   the    world  to 

light; 
Who  make   their    very   follies   like  their 

souls, 
And  like  the  young  moon  with  a  ragged 

edge, 

Still  in  their  imperfection  beautiful  ; 
Whose    weaknesses    are    lovely  as    their 

strengths, 
Like  the  white  nebulous  matter  between 

stars, 

Which,  if  not  light,  at  least  is  likest  light  ; 
Men  whom  we  build  our  love  round  like  an 

arch 

Of  triumph,  as  they  pass  us  on  their  way 
To  glory,  and  to  immortality  ; 
Men  whose  great  thoughts  possess  us  like 

a  passion, 
Through  every  limb  and  the  whole  heart  ; 

whose  words 
Haunt  us,  as  eagles   haunt  the   mountain 

air  ; 
Whose  thoughts  command  all  coming  times 

and  minds, 

As   from  a  tower,  a  warden  —  fix  them 
selves 

Deep  in  the  heart  as  meteor  stones  in  earth, 
Dropp'd   from   some   higher  sphere  :   the 

words  of  gods, 
And  fragments  of  the  undeem'd  tongues  of 

heaven  ; 

Men  who  walk  up  to  fame  as  to  a  friend, 
Or  their  own  house,  which  from  the  wrong 
ful  heir 
They  have  wrested,  from  the  world's  hard 

hand  and  gripe  ; 
Men  who,  like  death,  all  bone  but  all  un* 

arm'd, 
Have  ta'en  the  giant  world  by  the  throaty 

and  thrown  him, 


PHILIP   JAMES   BAILEY 


161 


And  made   him  swear   to    maintain  their 

name  and  fame 

At  peril  of  his  life  ;  who  shed  great  thoughts 
As  easily  as  an  oak  looseneth   its   golden 

leaves 

In  a  kindly  largesse  to  the  soil  it  grew  on  ; 
Whose  names  are  ever  on  the  world's  broad 

tongue, 

Like  sound  upon  the  falling  of  a  force  ; 
Whose  words,  if  wing'd,  are  with  angels' 

wings  ; 

Who  play  upon  the  heart  as  on  a  harp, 
And  make  our  eyes  bright  as  we  speak  of 

them  ; 
Whose  hearts  have  a  look  southwards,  and 

are  open 
To  the  whole  noon  of  nature  ;  these  I  have 

wak'd, 

And  wept  o'er,  night  by  night ;  oft  ponder 
ing  thus  : 
Homer  is  gone  :  and  where  is  Jove  ?  and 

where 

The  rival  cities  seven  ?     His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god  —  all  that  then  was, 

save  heaven. 

HELEN'S  SONG 

The  rose  is  weeping  for  her  love, 

The  nightingale  ; 
And  he  is  flying  fast  above, 

To  her  he  will  not  fail. 
Already  golden  eve  appears  ; 

He  wings  his  way  along  ; 
Ah  !  look,  he  comes  to  kiss  her  tears, 

And  soothe  her  with  his  song. 

The  moon  in  pearly  light  may  steep 

The  still  blue  air  ; 
The  rose  hath  ceas'd  to  droop  and  weep, 

For  lo  !  her  love  is  there  ; 
He  sings  to  her,  and  o'er  the  trees 

She  hears  his  sweet  notes  swim  ; 
The  world  may  weary  ;  she  but  sees 

Her  love,  and  hears  but  him. 

LUCIFER  AND   ELISSA 

Elissa.  Nigh  one  year  ago, 

watch'd   that   large    bright   star,    much 

where  't  is  now  : 

.e  hath  not  touch'd  its  everlasting  light 
ning, 

Nor  diinm'd  the  glorious  glances  of  its  eye  ; 
Nor  passion  clouded  it,  nor  any  star 


Eclips'd  ;  it  is  the  leader  still  of  heaven. 
And  I  who  lov'd  it  then  can  love  it  now  ; 
But  am  not  what  I  was,  in  one  degree. 
Calm  star  !  who  was  it  naiu'd  thee  Lucifer, 
From  him  who  drew  the  third  of  heaven 

down  with  him  ? 

Oh  !  it  was  but  the  tradition  of  thy  beaut}  I 
For  if  the  sun  hath  one  part,  and  the  moon 

one, 
Thou  hast  the  third  part  of  the  host  of 

heaven  — 
Which  is  its  power  —  which  power  is  but 

its  beauty  t 
Lucifer.     It  was  no  tradition,  lady,  but 

of  truth  ! 
Elissa.     I  thought  we    parted    last  to 

•  meet  no  more. 

Lucifer.     It  was  so,  lady  ;  but  it  is  not  BO. 
Elissa.     Am  I  to  leave,  or  thou,  then  ? 
Lucifer.  Neither,  yet. 

Elissa.     And  who  art  thou  that  I  should 

fear  and  serve  ? 
Lucifer.     I  am   the    morning    and    the 

evening  star, 
The  star  thou  lovedst ;  thy  lover  too  ;  as 

once 
I  told  thee  incredulous  ;  star  and  spirit  I 

am  ; 

A  power,  an  ill  which  doth  outbalance  being. 
Behold  life's  tyrant  evil,  peer  of  good, 
The  great  infortune  of  the  universe. 
Am  I  not  more  than  mortal  in  my  form  ? 
Millions  of   years  have  circled  round  my 

brow, 
Like  worlds  upon  their  centres,  —  still  I 

live, 

And  age  but  presses  with  a  halo's  weight. 
This  single  arm  hath  dash'd  the  light  of 

heaven  ; 
This  one  hand  dragg'd  the    angels  from 

their  thrones  :  — 

Am  I  not  worthy  to  have  lov'd  thee,  lady  ? 
Thou  mortal  model  of  all  lieavenliness  I 
Yet  all   these   spoils    have   I  abandon'd, 

cower'd 
My    powers,    my    course    becalm'd,  and 

stoop'd  from  the  high 
Destruction  of  the  skies  for  thee,  and  him 
Who  loving  thee  is  with  thee  lost,  both  lost 
Thou  hast  but  serv'd  the  purpose  ot  the 

fiend  ; 

Art  but  the  gilded  vessel  of  selfish  sin 
Whose  poison  hath  drunken  made  a  soul  to 

death : 
Thou,  useless  now.    I  come  to  bid  thee  die. 


162 


THE   RHAPSODISTS 


Elissa.     Wicked,   impure,  tormentor  of 
the  world, 

I  knew  thee  not.    Yet  doubt  not  thou  it  was 

Who  darkenedst  for  a  moment  with  base 
aim 

God  to  evade,  and  shun  in  this  world,  man, 

Love's  heart ;  with  selfish  end  alone  re 
deeming 

Me  from  the  evil,  the  death-fright.     Take, 
nathless, 

One  human  soul's  forgiveness,  such  the  sum 

Of  thanks  I  feel  for  heaven's  great  grace 
that  thou 

From  the  overflowings  of  love's  cup  mayst 
quench 

Thy  breast's  broad  burning  desert,  and  fer 
tilize 

Aught  may  be  in  it,  that  boasts  one  root  of 

good. 
Lucifer.     It  is  doubtless  sad  to  feel  one 

day  our  last. 

Elissa.     I  knew,  forewarn'd,  I  was  dy 
ing.     God  is  good. 

The  heavens  grow  darker  as  they  purer 
grow, 

And  both,  as  we  approach  them  ;  so  near 
death 

The  soul  grows  darker  and  diviner  hourly. 

Could  I  love  less,  I  should  be  happier  now. 

But  always   't  is   to   that    mad   extreme, 
death 

Alone  appears  the  fitting  end  to  bliss 

Like  that  my  spirit  presseth  for. 

Lucifer.    '  Thy  death 

Gentle  shall  be  as  e'er  hath  been  thy  life. 

I  '11  hurt  thee  not,  for  once  upon  this  breast, 

Fell,  like  a  snowflake  on  a  fever'd  lip, 

Thy  love.     Thy  soul  shall,  dreamlike,  pass 
from  thee. 

One  instant,   and  thou   wakest  in  heaven 

for  aye. 

Elissa.     Lost,  say'st  thou  in  one  breath, 
and  sav'd  in  heaven. 


I  ever  thought  thee  to  be  more  than  mor 
tal, 
And  since  thus   mighty,   grant   me  —  and 

thou  mayst 
This   one,   this    only   boon,   as   friend    to 

friend  — 

Bring  him  I  love,  one  moment  ere  I  die  ; 
Life,  love,  all  his.  .  .  . 

Lucifer.  Cease  ! 

As  a  wind-flaw,  darting  from  some  rifted 

cloud, 

Seizes  upon  a  water-patch  mid  main, 
And  into  white  wrath  worries  it,  so  my 

mind 

This  petty  controversy  distracts.  He  comes, 

I  say,  but  never  shalt  thou  view  him,  living. 

Elissa.     But  I  will,  will  see  him,  and 

while  I  am  alive. 
I  hear  him.     He  is  come. 

Lucifer.  The  ends  of  things 

Are  urgent.     Still,  to  this  mortuary  deed 
Reluctant,  fix  I  death's  black  seal.     He  's 

here  ! 
Elissa.     I  hear  him  ;  he  is  come  ;  it  is 

he  ;  it  is  he  ! 
Lucifer.      Die  graciously,  as  ever  thou 

hast  liv'd  ; 

Die,  thou  shalt  never  look  upon  him  again. 
Elissa.     My  love  !  haste,  Festus  !     I  am 

dying. 

Lucifer.  Dead ! 

As  ocean  racing  fast  and  fierce  to  reach 
Some  headland,  ere  the  moon  with  madden 
ing  ray 

Forestall  him,  and  rebellious  tides  excite 
To  vain  strife,  nor  of  the  innocent  skiff  that 

thwarts 
His  path,  aught  heeds,  but  with  dispiteous 

foam 
Wrecks  deathful,  I,  made  hasty  by  time's 

end 

Impending,  thus  fill  up  fate's  tragic  form. 
A  word  could  kill  her.     See,  she  hath  gone 

to  heaven. 


SDora  oBrccntocil 


A   SONG   OF   FAREWELL 

THE  Spring  will  come  again,  dear  friends, 
The  swallow  o'er  the  sea  ; 
The  bud  will  hang  upon  the  bough, 
The  blossom  on  the  tree  ; 


And  many  a  pleasant  sound  will  rise  to 

greet  her  on  her  way, 
The  voice  of  bird,  and  leaf,  and  stream, 

and  warm  winds  in  their  play  ; 
Ah  !  sweet  the  airs  that  round  her  breathe  I 

and  bountiful  is  she, 


DORA  GREENWELL  — MACDONALD 


•63 


She  bringeth  all  the  things  that  fresh,  and 

sweet,  and  hopeful  be  ; 
She   scatters   promise   on   the   earth  with 

open  hand  and  free, 
But  not  for  me,  my  friends, 
But  not  for  me  ! 

Summer  will  come  again,  dear  friends, 

Low  murmurs  of  the  bee 

Will  rise  through  the  long  sunny  day 

Above  the  flowery  lea  ; 

And  deep  the  dreamy  woods  will  own  the 
slumbrous  spell  she  weaves, 

And  send  a   greeting,   mix'd    with   sighs, 
through  all  their  quivering  leaves. 

Oh,  precious  are  her  glowing  gifts  !  and 
plenteous  is  she, 

She   bringeth   all   the   lovely   things   that 
bright  and  fragrant  be, 

She  scatters  fulness  on  the  Earth  with  lav 
ish  hand  and  free, 
But  not  for  me,  my  friends, 
But  not  for  me  ! 

Autumn  will  come  again,  dear  friends, 
His  spirit-touch  shall  be 
With  gold  upon  the  harvest-field, 
WTith  crimson  on  the  tree  ; 


He  passeth  o'er  the    silent  wood*,  they 
wither  at  big  breath, 

Slow  fading  in  a  still  decay,  a  change  that 
is  not  Death. 

Oh  !  rich  and  liberal,  and  wise,  and  provi 
dent  is  he  ! 

He  taketh  to  his  garner-house  the  things 
that  ripen'd  be, 

He  gathereth  his  store  from  Earth,  and 

silently  — 

And  he  will  gather  me,  my  friends, 
He  will  gather  me  I 


TO   CHRISTINA   ROSSETTI 

THOU  hast  fill'd  me  a  golden  cup 
With  a  drink  divine  that  glows, 
With  the  bloom  that  is  flowing  up 
From  the  heart  of  the  folded  rose. 
The  grapes  in  their  amber  glow, 
And  the  strength  of  the  blood-red  wine, 
All  mingle  and  change  and  flow 
In  this  golden  cup  of  thine, 
With  the  scent  of  the  curling  vine, 
With  the  balm  of  the  rose's  breath,  — 
For  the  voice  of  love  is  thine, 
And  thine  is  the  Song  of  Death  ! 


LIGHT 

THOU  art  the  joy  of  age  : 
Thy  sun   is  dear  when  long    the   shadow 

falls. 

Forth  to  its  friendliness  the  old  man  crawls, 
And,  like  the  bird  hung  out  in  his  poor 

cage 

To  gather  song  from  radiance,  in  his  chair 
Sits  by  the  door  ;  and  sitteth  there 
His  soul  within  him,  like  a  child  that  lies 
Half  dreaming,  with  half-open  eyes, 
At  close  of  a  long  afternoon  in  summer  — 
High  ruins  round  him,  ancient  ruins,  where 
The  raven  is  almost  the  only  comer  ; 
Half  dreams,  half  broods,  in  wonderment 
At  thy  celestial  descent, 
Through  rifted  loops  alighting  on  the  gold 
That  waves  its  bloom  in  many  an  airy  rent : 
So  dreams  the  old  man's  soul,  that  is  not 

old, 
But  sleepy  'mid  the  ruins  that  enfold. 


What    soul-like     changes,     evanescent 

moods, 

Upon  the  face  of  the  still  passive  earth, 
Its  hills,  and  fields,  and  woods, 
Thou  with  thy  seasons  and  thy  hours  art 

ever  calling  forth  ! 
Even  like  a  lord  of  music  bent 
Over  his  instrument, 
Who  gives  to  tears  and  smiles  an  equal 

birth! 

When  clear  as  holiness  the  morning  ray 
Casts    the    rock's  dewy  darkness    at   its 

feet, 
Mottling  with  shadows  all   the  mountain 

gray; 

When,  at  the  hour  of  sovereign  noon,  . 
Infinite  silent  cataracts  sheet 
Shadowless   through   the  air  of  thunder- 
breeding  June  ; 

And  when  a  yellower  glory  slanting  pastes 
Twixt   longer  shadows  o'er   the  meadow 

grasses ; 


i64 


THE  RHAPSODISTS 


When  now  the  moon  lifts  up  her  shining 

shield, 

High  on  the  peak  of  a  cloud-hill  reveal'd  ; 
Now  crescent,  low,  wandering    sun-dazed 

away, 

Unconscious  of  her  own  star-mingled  ray, 
Her  still  face  seeming  more  to  think  than 

see, 
Makes  the  pale  world  lie  dreaming  dreams 

of  thee  ! 

No  mood  of  mind,  no  melody  of  soul, 
But  lies  within  thy  silent  soft  control. 

Of  operative  single  power, 

And  simple  unity  the  one  emblem, 

Yet  all  the  colors  that  our  passionate  eyes 
devour, 

In  rainbow,  moonbow,  or  in  opal  gem, 

Are  the  melodious  descant  of  divided  thee. 

Lo  thee  in  yellow  sands  !  lo  thee 

In  the  blue  air  and  sea  ! 

In  the  green  corn,  with  scarlet  poppies  lit, 

Thy  half  souls  parted,  patient  thou  dost  sit. 

Lo  thee  in  speechless  glories  of  the  west  ! 

Lo  thee  in  dewdrop's  tiny  breast ! 

Thee  on  the  vast  white  cloud  that  floats 
away, 

Bearing  upon  its  skirt  a  brown  moon-ray  ! 

Regent  of  color,  thou  dost  fling 

Thy  overflowing  skill  on  everything  ! 

The  thousand  hues  and  shades  upon  the 
flowers 

Are  all  the  pastime  of  thy  leisure  hours  ; 

And  all  the  jewelled  ores  in  mines  that  hid 
den  be 

Are  dead  till  touch'd  by  thee.  L 

WORLD   AND    SOUL 

THIS  infant  world  has  taken  long  to  make  ! 
Nor  hast  Thou  done  the  making  of  it  yet, 
But  wilt  be  working  on  when  death  has  set 
A  new  mound  in  some  church-yard  for  my 

sake. 

On  flow  the  centuries  without  a  break  ; 
Uprise  the  mountains,  ages  without  let  ; 
The  lichens  suck  the  rock's  breast  —  food 

they  get : 
Years  more  than  past,  the  young  earth  yet 

will  take. 

But  in  the  dumbness  of  the  rolling  time, 
No  veil  of  silence  shall  encompass  me  : 
Thou  wilt  not  once  forget  and  let  me  be  ; 
Rather  wouldstThou  some  old  chaotic  prime 
Invade,  and,  with  a  tenderness  sublime, 
Unfold  a  world,  that  I,  thy  child,  might  see. 


BABY 

WHERE  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 


What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and 

spin? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 


Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and 

high? 
A  soft  hand  strok'd  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white 

rose  ? 
I    saw    something    better    than    any    one 

knows. 

Whence  that  three-corner'd  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  Bar  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling 

things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you  ? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 
God  thought    about    you,   and    so   I  aw 
here. 

SONG 

I  DREAM'D  that  I  woke  from  a  dream, 
And  the  house  was  full  of  light  ; 
At  the  window  two  angel  Sorrows 
Held  back  the  curtains  of  night. 

The  door  was  wide,  and  the  house 
Was  full  of  the  morning  wind  ; 
At  the  door  two  armed  warders 
Stood  silent,  with  faces  blind. 


MACDONALD  —  MASSEY 


'6$ 


I  ran  to  the  open  door, 
For  the  wind  of  the  world  was  sweet  ; 
The  warders  with  crossing  weapons 
Turn'd  back  my  issuing  feet. 

I  ran  to  the  shining  windows  — 
Inere  the  winged  Sorrows  stood  ; 


Silent  they  held  the  curtain*. 

And  the  light  fell  through  in  a  flood. 

I  clomb  to  the  highest  window  — 
Ah  !  there,  with  shadow'd  brow, 
Stood  one  lonely  radiant  Sorrow, 
And  that,  my  love,  was  thou. 


THE  DESERTER  FROM  THE 
CAUSE 

HE  is  gone  :  better  so.     We  should  know 

who  stand  under 
Our  banner :   let   none   but   the   trusty 

remain  ! 
For  there's  stern  work  at  hand,  and  the 

time  comes  shall  sunder 
The  shell  from  the  pearl,  and  the  chaff 

fiom.  the  grain. 
And   the  heart   that   through  danger  and 

death  will  be  dutiful, 
Soul   that  with  Cranmer  in  fire  would 

shake  hands, 
With  a  life   like  a  palace-home  built  for 

the  beautiful, 
Freedom  of  all  her  beloved  demands. 

He  is  gone  from  us  !     Yet  shall  we  march 

on  victorious, 
Hearts  burning  like  beacons  —  eyes  fix'd 

on  the  goal  ! 
And  if  we   fall   fighting,  we  fall  like  the 

glorious, 
With  face  to  the  stars,  and  all  heaven 

in  the  soul. 
And  aye  for  the  brave  stir  of  battle  we  11 

barter 
The  sword  of  life  sheath'd  in  the  peace 

of  the  grave  ; 

And  better  the  fieriest  fete  of  the  martyr, 
Than  live  like  the  coward,  and  die  like 
the  slave  ! 

CHRISTIE'S   PORTRAIT 

YOUR  tiny  picture  makes  me  yearn  ; 

We  are  so  far  apart  ! 
My  darling,  I  can  only  turn 

And  kiss  you  in  my  heart. 
A  thousand  tender  thoughts  a-wing 

Swarm  in  a  summer  clime, 


And  hover  round  it  murmuring 
Like  bees  at  honey-time. 

Upon  a  little  girl  I  look 

Whose  pureness  makes  me  Bad  ; 
I  read  as  in  a  holy  book, 

I  grow  in  secret  glad. 
It  seems  my  darling  conies  to  me 

With  something  I  have  lost 
Over  life's  toss'd  and  troubled  sea, 

On  some  celestial  coast. 

I  think  of  her  when  spirit-bow'd  ; 

A  glory  fills  the  place  ! 
Like  sudden  light  on  swords,  the  proud 

Smile  flashes  in  my  face  : 
And  others  see,  in  passing  by, 

But  cannot  understand 
The  vision  shining  in  mine  eye, 

My  strength  of  heart  and  hand. 

That  grave  content  and  touching  grace 

Bring  tears  into  mine  eyes  ; 
She  makes  my  heart  a  holy  place 

Where  hymns  and  incense  rise. 
Such  calm  her  gentle  spirit  brings 

As,  smiling  overhead, 
White-statued  saints  with  peaceful  wings 

Shadow  the  sleeping  dead. 

Our  Christie  is  no  rosy  Grace 

With  beauty  all  may  see, 
But  I  have  never  felt  a  face 

Grow  half  so  dear  to  me. 
No  curling  hair  about  her  brows, 

Like  many  merry  girls  ; 
Well,  straighter  to  my  heart  it  goef, 

And  round  it  curls  and  curls. 

Meek  as  the  wood  anemone  glints 

To  see  if  heaven  be  blue, 
Is  my  pale  flower  with  her  sweet  tint* 

Of  heaven  shining  through. 


i66 


THE  RHAPSODISTS 


She  will  be  poor  and  never  fret, 

Sleep  sound  and  lowly  lie  ; 
Will  live  her  quiet  life,  and  let 

The  great  world-storm  go  by. 

Dear  love  !     God  keep  her  in  his  grasp, 

Meek  maiden,  or  brave  wife, 
Till  his  good  angels  softly  clasp 

Her  closed  book  of  life  ! 
And  this  fair  picture  of  the  sun, 

With  birthday  blessings  given, 
Shall  fade  before  a  glorious  one 

Taken  of  her  in  heaven. 

HIS    BANNER   OVER   ME 

SURROUNDED  by  unnumber'd  foes, 
4  Against  my  soul  the  battle  goes  ! 


Yet  though  I  weary,  sore  distrest, 
I  know  that  I  shall  reach  my  rest : 

I  lift  rny  tearful  eyes  above,  — 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 

Its  sword  my  spirit  will  not  yield, 
Though  flesh  may  faint  upon  the  field  ; 
He  waves  before  my  fading  sight 
The  branch  of  palm,  —  the  crown  of  light  5 

I  lift  my  brightening  eyes  above,  — 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 

My  cloud  of  battle-dust  may  dim, 
His  veil  of  splendor  curtain  him  ! 
And  in  the  midnight  of  my  fear 
I  may  not  feel  him  standing  near  ; 

But,  as  I  lift  mine  eyes  above, 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 


FROM   "A   LIFE-DRAMA" 

FORERUNNERS 

Walter.     I  have  a  strain  of  a  departed 

bard; 

One  who  was  born  too  late  into  this  world. 
A  mighty  day  was  past,  and  he  saw  nought 
But  ebbing  sunset  and  the  rising  stars,  — 
Still  o'er  him  rose  those  melancholy  stars  ! 
Unknown  his  childhood,  save  that  he  was 

born 
'Mong    woodland    waters    full    of    silver 

breaks ; 

I  was  to  him  but  Labrador  to  Ind  ; 
His  pearls  were  plentier  than  my  pebble 
stones. 
He  was  the  sun,  I  was  that  squab  —  the 

earth, 

And  bask'd  me  in  his  light  until  he  drew 
Flowers  from  my  barren  sides.     Oh  !  he 

was  rich, 

And  I  rejoiced  upon  his  shore  of  pearls, 
A  weak  enamor'd  sea.     Once  he  did  say, 
"  My  Friend  !  a  Poet  must  ere  long  arise, 
And  with  a  regal  song  sun-crown  this  age, 
As  a  saint's  head  is  with  a  halo  crown'd  ;  — 
One,  who  shall  hallow  Poetry  to  God 
And  to  its  own  high  use,  for  Poetry  is 
The  grandest  chariot  wherein  king-thoughts 
ride  ;  — 


One,  who  shall  fervent  grasp  the  sword  ot 

song, 
As  a  stern  swordsman  grasps  his  keenest 

blade, 

To  find  the  quickest  passage  to  the  heart. 
A  mighty  Poet,  whom  this  age  shall  choose 
To  be  its  spokesman  to  all  coming  times. 
In  the  ripe  full-blown  season  of  his  soul, 
He  shall  go  forward  in  his  spirit's  strength, 
And  grapple  with  the  questions  of  all  time, 
And  wring  from  them  their  meanings.     As 

King  Saul 
Call'd    up   the    buried    prophet   from  his 

grave 

To  speak  his  doom,  so  shall  this  Poet-king 
Call  up  the  dead  Past  from  its  awful  grave 
To  tell  him  of  our  future.     As  the  air 
Doth  sphere  the  world,  so  shall  his  heart 

of  love  — 

Loving  mankind,  not  peoples.     As  the  lake 
Reflects  the  flower,  tree,  rock,  and  bending 

heaven, 

Shall  he  reflect  our  great  humanity  ; 
And  as  the  young  Spring  breathes  with  liv 
ing  breath 

On  a  dead  branch,  till  it  sprouts  fragrantly 
Green  leaves  and  sunny  flowers,  shall  he 

breathe  life 
Through  every  theme  he  touch,  making  all 

Beauty 

And  Poetry  for  ever  like  the  stars." 
His  words  set  me  on  fire  ;  I  cried  aloud, 


AI.KXANDER   SMITH 


167 


"  Gods  !    what   a   portion   to    forerun   this 

Soul  1  " 
He  grasp'd  my  hand,  —  I  look'd  upon  his 

face, — 
A   thought   struck   all  the  blood  into  his 

cheeks, 
Like  a  strong  buffet.     His  great  flashing 

eyes 
Buru'd  on  mine  own.     He  said,  "  A  grim 

old  king, 

Whose  blood  leap'd  madly  when  the  trum 
pets  bray'd 

To  joyous  battle  'mid  a  storm  of  steeds, 
Won  a  rich  kingdom  on  a  battle-day  ; 
But  in  the  sunset  he  was  ebbing  fast, 
Ring'd   by   his   weeping   lords.      His   left 

hand  held 
His  white  steed,  to  the  belly  splash' d  with 

blood, 

That  seem'd  to  mourn  him  with  its  droop 
ing  head  ; 
His  right,  his  broken  brand  ;   and  in  his 

ear 

His  old  victorious  banners  flap  the  winds. 
He  called  his  faithful  herald  to  his  side,  — 
•  Go  !  tell  the  dead  I  come  ! '   With  a  proud 

smile, 

The  warrior  with  a  stab  let  out  his  soul, 
Which  fled  and  shriek'd  through   all  the 

other  world, 
'  Ye   dead  !      My   master  comes  !  *      And 

there  was  pause 
Till  the  great  shade  should  enter.     Like 

that  herald,  . 

Walter,  I  'd  rush  across  this  waiting  world 
And  cry,  '  He  comes  1  "      Lady,  wilt  hear 

the  song  ?  [Sings. 

A   MINOR   POET 

He  sat  one  winter  'neath  a  linden  tree 

In  my  bare  orchard  ;   "See,  my  friend," 

he  said, 
"  The  stars  among  the  branches  hang  like 

fruit, 
),  hopes  were  thick  within  me.     When 

I  'in  gone 
The  world  will  like  a  valuator  sit 
Upon  my  soul,  and  say,  '  I  was  a  cloud 
That  caught  its  glory  from  a  sunken  sun, 
And  gradual  burn'd  into  its  native  gray.' " 
On  an  October  eve,  't  was  his  last  wish 
To  see  again  the  mists  and  golden  woods  ; 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  was  lifted  up, 
The  slumb'rous  sun  within  the  lazy  west 


With  their  last  gladness  flll'd  his  dyin* 

eyes. 

No  sooner  was  he  hence  than  critic-worms 
Were  swarming  on  the  body  of  his  fame, 
And  thus  they  judged  the  dead: 

Poet  was 

An  April  tree  whose  vermeil-loaded  boughs 
Promis'd  to  Autumn  apples  juiced  and  red, 
But  never  came  to  fruit."     "  He  is  to  us 
But  a  rich  odor,  —  a  faint  music-swell." 
"  Poet  he  was  not  in  the  larger  sense  ; 
He  coirtd  write  pearls,  but  he  could  never 

write 

A  Poem  round  and  perfect  as  a  star." 
"  Politic,  i'  faith.     His  most  judicious  act 
Was  dying  when  he  did  ;  the  next  five  years 
Had   tinger'd   all  the   tine  dust  from  his 

wings, 
And  left  him  poor  as  we.    He  died  —  't  was 

shrewd  ! 
And  came  witli  all  his  youth  and  unblown 

hopes 
On  the  world's  heart,  and  touch'd  it  into 

tears." 

SEA-MARGE 

The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky, 
Hedges  are  white  with  May.     The  bride 
groom  sea 

Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride, 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy, 
He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 
Retires  a  space,  to  see  how  fair  she  looks, 
Then  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  her.     All  is 

fair  — 
All  glad,  from  grass  to  sun  t    Yet  more  I 

love 

Than  this,  the  shrinking  day  that  some 
times  conies 
In  Winter's  front,  so  fair  'mong  its  dark 

peers, 

It  seems  a  straggler  from  the  files  of  June, 
Which  in  its  wanderings  had  lost  its  wits, 
And  half  its  beauty  ;  and,  when  it  return'd, 
Finding  its  old  companions  £one  away, 
It  join'd  November's  troop,  then  inarching 

past  ; 
And  so  the  frail  thing  comes,  and  greets 

the  world 
With  a  thin  crazy  smile,  then  bursts  in 

tears, 

And  all  the  while  it  holds  within  its  hand 
A  few  half-wither'd  dowers.     I  love  and 
pity  it ! 


1 68 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


BEAUTY 

BEAUTY  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air, 
Our  present  sunsets  are  as  rich  in  gold 
As  ere  the  Iliad's  music  was  out-roll'd  ; 
The  roses  of  the  Spring  are  ever  fair, 
?Mong  branches  green  still  ring-doves  coo 

and  pair, 

And  the  deep  sea  still  foams  its  music  old. 
So,  if  we  are  at  all  divinely  soul'd, 
This  beauty  will  unloose  our  bonds  of  care. 
'T  is  pleasant,  when  blue  skies  are  o'er  us 

bending 

Within  old  starry-gated  Poesy, 
To  meet  a  soul  set  to  no  worldly  tune, 
Like  thine,  sweet  Friend  !     Oh,  dearer  this 

to  me 

Than  are  the  dewy  trees,  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Or  noble  music  with  a  golden  ending. 

TO  

THE  broken  moon  lay  in  the  autumn  sky, 

And  I  lay  at  thy  feet  ; 
You  bent  above  me  ;  in  the  silence  I 

Could  hear  my  wild  heart  beat. 

I  spoke  ;  my  soul  was  full  of  trembling  fears 
At  what  my  words  would  bring  : 

You  rais'd  your  face,  your  eyes  were  full 

of  tears, 
As  the  sweet  eyes  of  Spring. 

You  kiss'd  me  then,  I  worshipp'd  at  thy 

feet 

Upon  the  shadowy  sod. 
Oh,  fool,  I  lov'd  thee  !  lov'd  thee,  lovely 

cheat ! 
Better  than  Fame  or  God. 


My  soul  leap'd  up  beneath  thy  timid  kiss  ; 

What  then  to  me  were  groans, 
Or  pain,  or  death  ?     Earth  was  a  round  of 
bliss, 

I  seem'd  to  walk  on  thrones. 

And  you  were  with  me  'mong  the  rushing 

wheels, 

'Mid  Trade's  tumultuous  jars  ; 
And  where  to  awe-struck  wilds  the  Night 

reveals 
Her  hollow  gulfs  of  stars. 

Before  your  window,  as  before  a  shrine, 
I  've  knelt  'mong  dew-soak'd  flowers, 

While  distant  music-bells,  with  voices  fine, 
Measur'd  the  midnight  hours. 

There  came  a  fearful  moment :  I  was  pale, 

You  wept,  and  never  spoke, 
But  clung  around  me  as  the  woodbine  frail 

Clings,  pleading,  round  an  oak. 

Upon  my  wrong  I  steadied  up  my  soul, 

And  flung  thee  from  myself  ; 
I  spurn'd  thy  love  as  't  were  a  rich  man's 
dole,  — 

It  was  my  only  wealth. 

I  spurn'd  thee  !     I,  who  lov'd  thee,  could 
have  died, 

That  hop'd  to  call  thee  "  wife," 
And  bear  thee,  gently-smiling  at  my  side, 

Through  all  the  shocks  of  life  ! 

Too  late,  thy  fatal  beauty  and  thy  tears, 
Thy  vows,  thy  passionate  breath  ; 

I  '11  meet  thee  not  in  Life,  nor  in  the  spheres 
Made  visible  by  Death. 


EARLY   HYMNODY 

(See  also:  S.  F.  ADAMS,  ALFORD,  E.  B.  BROWNING,  H.  COLERIDGE,  DE  VERE,  Fox, 

MARTINEAU,  NEWMAN) 


AT   HOME   IN   HEAVEN 

«  FOREVER  with  the  Lord  !  " 

Amen,  so  let  it  be  ; 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word, 
T  is  immortality. 


Here  in  the  body  pent, 

Absent  from  him  I  roam, 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 


MONTGOMERY  —  ELLIOTT 


169 


My  Father's  house  on  high, 

Home  of  my  soul,  how  near 
At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  appear  I 

Ah  I  then  my  spirit  faints 

To  reach  the  land  I  love, 
The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  above. 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 

And  all  my  prospect  flies  ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  Hit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  dispart, 
The  winds  and  waters  cease, 


While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladden'd  heart 
Expands  the  bow  o?  peace. 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 

Along  the  hallow'd  ground, 
I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 

At  noon  and  midnight  hour, 
The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 

Earth's  Babel-tongues  o'erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel  that  he, 
Remember'd  or  forgot, 
The  Lord,  is  never  far  from  me, 
Though  I  perceive  him  not. 


Charlotte  vCHiott 


JUST  AS   I  AM 


JUST  as  I  am,  without  one  plea 
But  that  thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  thou  bid'st  me  come  to  thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  I 

Just  as  I  am,  and  waiting  not 
To  rid  my  soul  of  one  dark  blot, 
To  thee,  whose  blood  can  cleanse  each  spot, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  though  toss'd  about, 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
Fightings  and  fears  within,  without, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  I 

Just  as  I  am,  poor,  wretched,  blind  ; 
Sight,  riches,  healing  of  the  mind, 
Yea,  all  I  need,  in  thee  to  find, 

O  Lamb  of  God;  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  thou  wilt  receive, 

Wilt  welcome,  pardon,  cleanse,  relieve  ; 

Because  thy  promise  I  believe, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  1  am  —  thy  love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  banner  down  ; 
Now  to  be  thine,  yea,  thine  alone, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  I 


Just  as  I  am,  of  that  free  love, 

The  breadth,  length,  depth,  and  height  to 

prove, 
Here  for  a  season,  then  above, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 


LET  ME  BE  WITH   THEE 

LET  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 
My  Saviour,  my  eternal  rest  1 

Then  only  will  this  longing  heart 
Be  fully  and  forever  blest. 

Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 
Thy  unveil'd  glory  to  behold  ; 

Then  only  will  this  wandering  heart 
Cease  to  be  treacherous,  faithless,  cold. 

Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 
Where  spotless  saints  thy  name  adore  ; 

Then  only  will  this  sinful  heart 
Be  evil  and  defil'd  no  more. 

Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 
Where    none   can   die,  where  none  re- 
move  ; 

There  neither  death  nor  life  will  part 
Me  from  thy  presence  and  thy  love  I 


170 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


PRAYER   TO   THE   TRINITY 

LEAD  us.  heavenly  Father,  lead  us 

O'er  the  world's  tempestuous  sea  ; 
Guard  us,  guide  us,  keep  us,  feed  us, 
For  we  have  no  help  but  thee  ; 
Yet  possessing 
Every  blessing, 
If  our  God  our  Father  be. 

Saviour,  breathe  forgiveness  o'er  us  ; 
All  our  weakness  thou  dost  know  ; 


Thou  didst  tread  this  earth  before  us, 
Thou  didst  feel  its  keenest  woe  j 
Lone  and  dreary, 
Faint  and  weary, 
Through  the  desert  thou  didst  go. 

Spirit  of  our  God,  descending. 

Fill  our  hearts  with  heavenly  joy  , 
Love  with  every  passion  blending, 
Pleasure  that  can  never  cloy  : 
Thus  provided, 
Pardon'd,  guided, 
Nothing  can  our  peace  destroy. 


HYMN   FOR  THE   SIXTEENTH 
SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY 

WHEN  our  heads  are  bow'd  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o'erflow, 
When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortal  griefs  hast  borne, 
Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls — 
When  our  final  doom  is  near, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  hast  bow'd  the  dying  head, 
Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed, 
Thou  hast  filFd  a  mortal  bier  • 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin, 
When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  I 

Thou  the  shame,  the  grief  hast  known  ; 
Though  the  sins  were  not  Thine  own, 
Thou  hast  deign'd  their  load  to  bear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  I 


BURIAL  HYMN 

BROTHER,  thou  art  gone  before  us, 

And  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wip'd  from  every  eye, 

And  sorrow  is  unknown. 
From  the  burden  of  the  flesh, 

And  from  care  and  sin  releas'd, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou  'st  travell'd  o'er, 

And  hast  borne  the  heavy  load  ; 
But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  wandering  feet 

To  reach  his  bless'd  abode  ; 
Thou  'rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus, 

On  his  Father's  faithful  breast, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling., 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now, 

Nor  can  doubt  thy  faith  assail ; 
Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ 

And  the  Holy  Spirit  fail ; 
And  there  thou  'rt  sure  to  meet  the  good, 

Whom  on  earth  thou  lovest  best, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

" Earth  to  earth,"  and  "dust  to  dust," 
Thus  the  solemn  priest  hath  said  ; 

So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now, 
And  seal  thy  narrow  bed  j 


MILMAN  — KEBLE 


'7' 


But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away 

Among  the  faithful  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us 

Whom  thou  now  hast  left  behind, 
May  we,  untainted  by  the  world, 

As  sure  a  welcome  find  ; 
May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace, 

To  be  a  glorious,  happy  guest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

RIDE  ON  IN  MAJESTY 

RIDE  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  ! 
In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die  ; 


O  Christ,  thy  triumphs  now  begin 
O'er  captive  death  and  conquer'd  sin  I 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  I 

The  winged  armies  of  the  sky 

Look  down  with  sad  and  wondering  eyet 

To  see  the  approaching  sacrifice. 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  ! 
The  last  and  fiercest  strife  is  nigh  ; 
The  Father  on  his  sapphire  throne 
Expects  his  own  anointed  Son. 

Ride  on  I  ride  on  in  majesty  I 
In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die  ; 
Bow  thy  meek  head  to  mortal  pain, 
Then  take,  O  God,  thy  power,  and  reign  I 


WHO  RUNS  MAY  READ 

THERE  is  a  book,  who  runs  may  read, 
Which  heavenly  truth  imparts, 

And  all  the  lore  its  scholars  need, 
Pure  eyes  and  Christian  hearts. 

The  works  of  God  above,  below, 

Within  us  and  around, 
Are  pages  in  that  book,  to  show 

How  God  himself  is  found. 

The  glorious  sky,  embracing  all, 

Is  like  the  Maker's  love, 
Wherewith  encompass'd,  great  and  small 

In  peace  and  order  move. 

The  moon  above,  the  Church  below, 

A  wondrous  race  they  run, 
But  all  their  radiance,  all  their  glow, 

Each  borrows  of  its  sun. 

The  Saviour  lends  the  light  and  heat 

That  crowns  his  holy  hill  ; 
The  saints,  like  stars,  around  his  seat, 

Perform  their  courses  still. 

saints  above  are  stars  in  heaven  — 
What  are  the  saints  on  earth  ? 
te  trees  they  stand  whom  God  has  given, 
Our  Eden's  happy  birth. 


Faith  is  their  fix'd  unswerving  root, 
Hope  their  unfading  flower, 

Fair  deeds  of  charity  their  fruit, 
The  glory  of  their  bower. 

The  dew  of  heaven  is  like  thy  grace. 

It  steals  in  silence  down  ; 
But  where  it  lights,  the  favor'd  place 

By  richest  fruits  is  known. 

One  Name,  above  all  glorious  names, 
With  its  ten  thousand  tongues 

The  everlasting  sea  proclaims, 
Echoing  angelic  songs. 

The  raging  fire,  the  roaring  wind, 
Thy  boundless  power  display  : 

But  in  the  gentler  breeze  we  find 
Thy  spirit's  viewless  way. 

Two  worlds  are  ours  :  't  is  only  sin 

Forbids  us  to  descry 
The  mystic  heaven  and  earth  within, 

Plain  as  the  sea  and  sky. 

Thou,  who  hast  given  me  eyes  to  see 
And  love  this  sight  so  fair, 

Give  me  a  heart  to  find  out  thee, 
And  read  thee  everywhere. 


172 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


SEED   TIME  HYMN 

LORD,  in  thy  name  thy  servants  plead, 

And  thou  hast  sworn  to  hear  ; 
Thine  is  the  harvest,  thine  the  seed, 

The  fresh  and  fading  year  : 

Our  hope,  when  autumn  winds  blew  wild, 

We  trusted,  Lord,  with  thee  ; 
And  still,  now  spring  has  on  us  smil'd, 

We  wait  on  thy  decree. 

The  former  and  the  latter  rain, 

The  summer  sun  and  air, 
The  green  ear,  and  the  golden  grain, 

All  thine,  are  ours  by  prayer. 

Thine  too  by  right,  and  ours  by  grace, 

The  wondrous  growth  unseen, 
The  hopes  that  soothe,  the  fears  that  brace, 

The  love,  that  shines  serene. 

So  grant  the  precious  things  brought  forth 

By  sun  and  moon  below, 
That  thee  in  thy  new  heaven  and  earth 

We  never  may  forego. 


HOLY   MATRIMONY 

THE  voice  that  breath'd  o'er  Eden, 
That  earliest  wedding-day, 

The  primal  marriage  blessing, 
It  bath  not  pass'd  away. 


Still  in  the  pure  espousal 

Of  Christian  man  and  maid, 
The  holy  Three  are  with  us, 

The  threefold  grace  is  said. 

For  dower  of  blessed  children, 
For  love  and  faith's  sweet  sake, 

For  high  mysterious  union, 

Which  nought  on  earth  may  break. 

Be  present,  awful  Father, 

To  give  away  this  bride, 
As  Eve  thou  gav'st  to  Adam 

Out  of  his  own  pierced  side  : 

Be  present,  Son  of  Mary, 

To  join  their  loving  hands, 
As  thou  didst  bind  two  natures 

In  thine  eternal  bands  : 

Be  present,  Holiest  Spirit, 

To  bless  them  as  they  kneel, 
As  thou  for  Christ,  the  Bridegroom, 

The  heavenly  Spouse  dost  seal. 

Oh,  spread  thy  pure  wing  o'er  them, 

Let  no  ill  power  find  place, 
When  onward  to  thine  altar 

The  hallow'd  path  they  trace, 

To  cast  their  crowns  before  thee 

In  perfect  sacrifice, 
Till  to  the  home  of  gladness 

With  Christ's  own  Bride  they  rise.  AMEN; 


FROM   THE   RECESSES 

FROM  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 

My  humble  prayer  ascends  :  O   Father  ! 

hear  it. 

Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  fear  and  meek 
ness, 

Forgive  its  weakness. 

I  know,  I  feel,  how  mean  and  how  un 
worthy 

€Tie  trembling  sacrifice  I  pour  before  thee  ; 
What  can  I  offer  in  thy  presence  holy, 
But  sin  and  folly  ? 


For  in  thy  sight,  who  every  bosom  viewest, 
Cold  are  our  warmest  vows  and  vain  our 

truest ; 
Thoughts  of  a  hurrying  hour  ;  our  lips  re« 

peat  them, 

Our  hearts  forget  them. 

We  see  thy  hand  —  it  leads  us,  it  supports 

us  ; 
We  hear  thy  voice  —  it   counsels  and  it 

courts  us  ; 
And   then  we  turn  away  —  and    still   thy 

kindness 

Pardons  our  blindness, 


BOWRING  — LYTE 


'73 


still    thy   ruin    descends,  thy   sun    is 

glowing, 
its  ripen  round,  flowers  are  beneath  us 

blowing, 

as  if  man  were  some  deserving  crea 
ture, 

Joys  cover  nature. 

how  long-suffering,  Lord  !    but    thou 

delightest 
win  with  love  the  wandering  ;  thou  in- 

vitest 

smiles  of  mercy,  not  by  frowns  or  ter 
rors, 

Man  from  his  errors. 

can  resist  thy  gentle  call,  appealing 
every  generous  thought   and   grateful 
feeling  ? 

voice  paternal  whispering,  watching 
ever, 

My  bosom  ?  —  never. 

fcher  and  Saviour !  plant  within  that  bosom 
jse  seeds  of   holiness  ;    and   bid   them 

blossom 

fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and  ver 
nal, 

And  spring  eternal. 

place  them  in  those  everlasting  gar 
dens 

ire  angels  walk,  and   seraphs  are  the 
wardens  ; 


Where  every  flower  that  creeps  through 
death's  dark  portal 
Becomes  immortal. 

WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT? 

WATCHMAN,  tell  us  of  the  night, 

What  its  signs  of  promise  are  ( 
Traveller,  o'er  yon  mountain's  height 

See  that  glory-beaming  star  I 
Watchman,  doth  its  beauteous  raj 

Aught  of  hope  or  joy  foretell  ? 
Traveller,  yes  !  it  brings  the  day, 

Promis'd  day  of  Israel. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night : 

Higher  yet  that  star  ascends  ! 
Traveller,  blessedness  and  light, 

Peace  and  truth,  its  course  portends. 
Watchman,  will  its  beams  alone 

Gild  the  spot  that  gave  them  birth  ? 
Traveller,  ages  are  its  own, 

And  it  bursts  o'er  all  the  earth  ! 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night, 

For  the  morning  seems  to  dawn. 
Traveller,  darkness  takes  its  flight, 

Doubt  and  terror  are  withdrawn. 
Watchman,  let  thy  wand 'rings  cease  ; 

Hie  thee  to  thy  quiet  home. 
Traveller,  lo  !  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Lo  !  the  Son  of  God  is  come. 


ABIDE  WITH  ME 

ABIDE  with  me  !  Fast  falls  the  eventide  ; 
The    darkness    deepens :    Lord,   with  me 

abide  ! 

When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  0  abide  with  me  ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day  ; 
Earth's  joys   grow  dim  ;   its  glories   pass 

away  : 

Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see  ; 
O  thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me  ! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word, 
But  as  thou  dwell'st  with  thy  disciples,  Lord, 


Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free,  — 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide,  with  me  t 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings  ; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  thy 

wings  : 

Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea  ; 
Come,   Friend  of  sinners,  and  thus  bide 

with  me  1 

Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst 

smile, 
And,    though    rebellious     and     perverse 

meanwhile, 

Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  thee  : 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  I 


174 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


I  need  thy  presence  every  passing  hour. 
What  but  thy  grace  can  foil  the  Tempter's 

power  ? 
Who  like  thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can 

be? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  O  abide  with 

me  ! 

I  fear  no  foe  with  thee  at  hand  to  bless  : 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness. 
Where  is  death's  sting,  where,  grave,  thy 

victory  ? 
I  triumph  still,  if  thou  abide  with  me. 

Hold  thou  thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes  ; 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to 

the  skies  : 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain 

shadows  flee  : 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

"LO,  WE   HAVE   LEFT  ALL" 

JESUS,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 

All  to  leave,  and  follow  thee  ; 
Destitute,  despis'd,  forsaken, 

Thou,  from  hence,  my  all  shalt  be. 
Perish  every  fond  ambition, 

All  I  've  sought  and  hop'd  and  known, 
Yet  how  rich  is  my  condition, 

God  and  heaven  are  still  my  own  ! 

Let  the  world  despise  and  leave  me, 

They  have  left  my  Saviour,  too  ; 
Human  hearts  and  looks  deceive  me  ; 

Thou  art  not,  like  man,  untrue  ; 
And,  while  thou  shalt  smile  upon  me, 

God  of  wisdom,  love,  and  might, 
Foes  may  hate  and  friends  may  shun  me  : 

Show  thy  face,  and  all  is  bright. 

Go,  then,  earthly  fame  and  treasure  ! 

Come,  disaster,  scorn,  and  pain  ! 
In  thy  service  pain  is  pleasure  ; 

With  thy  favor  loss  is  gain. 
I  have  call'd  thee  Abba,  Father  ; 

I  have  stay'd  my  heart  on  thee  : 
Storms  may  howl,  and  clouds  may  gather, 

All  must  work  for  good  to  me. 

Man  may  trouble  and  distress  me, 
'T  will  but  drive  me  to  thy  breast ; 


Life  with  trials  hard  may  press  me, 
Heaven  will  bring  me  sweeter  rest. 

Oh,  't  is  not  in  grief  to  harm  me, 
While  thy  love  is  left  to  me  ! 

Oh,  't  were  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 
Were  that  joy  immix'd  with  thee  I 

Take,  my  soul,  thy  full  salvation, 

Rise  o'er  sin  and  fear  and  care  ; 
Joy  to  find  in  every  station 

Something  still  to  do  or  bear. 
Think  what  Spirit  dwells  within  thee  j 

What  a  Father's  smile  is  thine  ; 
What  a  Saviour  died  to  win  thee  : 

Child  of  heaven,  shouldst  thou  repine  ? 

Haste  then  on  from  grace  to  glory, 

Arm'd  by  faith,  and  wing'd  by" prayer  ; 
Heaven's  eternal  day  's  before  thee, 

God's  own  hand  shall  guide  thee  there. 
Soon  shall  close  thy  earthly  mission, 

Swift  shall  pass  thy  pilgrim  days, 
Hope  soon  change  to  glad  fruition, 

Faith  to  sight,  and  prayer  to  praise  ! 


THE   SECRET   PLACE 

THERE  is  a  safe  and  secret  place 

Beneath  the  wings  divine, 
Reserv'd  for  all  the  heirs  of  grace  : 

Oh,  be  that  refuge  mine  ! 

The  least  and  feeblest  there  may  bide 

Uninjur'd  and  unaw'd  ; 
While  thousands  fall  on  every  side, 

He  rests  secure  in  God. 

The  angels  watch  him  on  his  way, 
And  aid  with  friendly  arm  ; 

And  Satan,  roaring  for  his  prey, 
May  hate,  but  cannot  harm. 

He  feeds  in  pastures  large  and  fair 

Of  love  and  truth  divine  ; 
O  child  of  God,  O  glory's  heir, 

How  rich  a  lot  is  thine  ! 

A  hand  almighty  to  defend, 

An  ear  for  every  call, 
An  honor'd  life,  a  peaceful  end, 

And  heaven  to  crown  it  all  1 


I 


WILBERFORCE  —  C.   WORDSWORTH  —  BONAR 


'75 


BDilbcrforcc 


JUST   FOR   TO-DAY 

LORD,  for  to-morrow  and  its  needs 

I  do  not  pray  ; 
Keep  me  from  any  stain  of  sin 

Just  for  to-day  : 
Let  me  both  diligently  work 

And  duly  pray  ; 
Let  me  be  kind  in  word  and  deed 

Just  for  to-day, 
Let  me  be  slow  to  do  my  will  — 

Prompt  to  obey  : 


Help  me  to  sacrifice  myself 

Just  for  to-day. 
Let  me  no  wrong  or  idle  word 

Unthinking  say  — 
Set  thou  thy  seal  upon  my  lips, 

Just  for  to-day. 
So  for  to-morrow  and  its  needs 

I  do  not  pray, 
But  keep  me,  guide  me,  hold  me,  Lord, 

Just  for  to-day. 


GIVING  TO  GOD 

O  LORD  of  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea  ! 
To  thee  all  praise  and  glory  be  ; 
How  shall  we  show  our  love  to  thee, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all  ? 

The  golden  sunshine,  vernal  air, 
Sweet  flowers  and  fruit  thy  love  declare  ; 
When  harvests  ripen,  thou  art  there, 
Who  givest  all  -^-  who  givest  all. 

For  peaceful  homes  and  healthful  days, 
For  all  the  blessings  earth  displays, 
We  owe  thee  thankfulness  and  praise, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all. 


For  souls  redeem'd,  for  sins  forgiven, 
For  means  of  grace  and  hopes  of  heaven, 
What  can  to  thee,  O  Lord  !  be  given, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all  ? 

We  lose  what  on  ourselves  we  spend, 
We  have,  as  treasures  without  end, 
Whatever,  Lord,  to  thee  we  lend, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all. 

Whatever,  Lord,  we  lend  to  thee, 
Repaid  a  thousand-fold  will  be  ; 
Then  gladly  will  we  give  to  thee, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  alL 


LOST  BUT  FOUND 

I  WA8  a  wandering  sheep, 

I  did  not  love  the  fold  ; 
I  did  not  love  my  Shepherd's  voice, 

I  would  not  be  controlled. 

I  was  a  wayward  child, 

I  did  not  love  my  home, 
I  did  not  love  my  Father's  voice, 

I  lov'd  afar  to  roam. 

The  Shepherd  sought  his  sheep  ; 
The  Father  sought  his  child  ; 
They  follow'd  me  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
O'er  deserts  waste  and  wild. 


They  found  me  nigh  to  death, 
Famish'd,  and  faint,  and  lone  ; 

They  bound  me  with  the  bands  of  love  ; 
They  sav'd  the  wandering  one. 

• 

They  spoke  in  tender  love, 
They  rais'd  my  drooping  head  ; 

They  gently  clos'd  my  bleeding  wounds, 
My  fainting  soul  they  fed. 
They  wash'd  my  filth  away, 
They  made  me  clean  and  fair  ; 

They  brought  me  to  my  home  in  peace, 
The  long-sought  wanderer. 


i76 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


Jesus  my  Shepherd  is, 

'T  was  he  that  lov'd  my  soul  ; 

'T  was  he  that  wash'd  me  in  his  blood, 
'T  was  he  that  made  me  whole  ; 
'T  was  he  that  sought  the  lost, 
That  found  the  wandering  sheep  ; 

'T  was  he  that  brought  me  to  the  fold, 
'Tis  he  that  still  doth  keep. 

I  was  a  wandering  sheep, 

I  would  not  be  control!' d  ; 
But  now  I  love  my  Shepherd's  voice, 

I  love,  I  love  the  fold. 

I  was  a  wayward  child, 

I  once  preferr'd  to  roam  ; 
But  now  I  love  my  Father's  voice, 

I  love,  I  love  his  home. 


THE  VOICE  FROM  GALILEE 

I  HEARD  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 

Come  unto  me  and  rest  ; 
Lay  down,  thou  weary  one,  lay  down 

Thy  head  upon  my  breast. 
I  came  to  Jesus  as  I  was, 

Weary,  and  worn,  and  sad, 
I  found  in  him  a  resting-place, 

And  he  has  made  me  glad. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 

Behold,  I  freely  give 
The  living  water,  —  thirsty  one, 

Stoop  down,  and  drink,  and  live. 
I  came  to  Jesus  and  I  drank 

Of  that  life-giving  stream  ; 
My  thirst  was  quench'd,  my  soul  reviv'd, 

And  now  I  live  in  him. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 

I  am  this  dark  world's  light, 
Look  unto  me,  thy  morn  shall  rise 

And  all  thy  day  be  bright. 
I  look'd  to  Jesus,  and  I  found 

In  him  my  Star,  my  Sun  ; 
And  in  that  light  of  life  I'  11  walk 

Till  travelling  days  are  done. 

THY  WAY,   NOT   MINE 

THY  way,  not  mine,  O  Lord, 

However  dark  it  be  ! 
Lead  me  by  thine  own  hand, 

Choose  out  the  path  for  me. 


Smooth  let  it  be,  or  rough, 

It  will  be  still  the  best  ; 
Winding  or  straight,  it  matters  not, 

Right  onward  to  thy  rest. 

I  dare  not  choose  my  lot  ; 

I  would  not,  if  I  might  ; 
Choose  thou  for  me,  my  God  ; 

So  shall  I  walk  aright. 

The  kingdom  that  I  seek 

Is  thine  ;  so  let  the  way 
That  leads  to  it  be  thine, 

Else  I  must  surely  stray. 

Take  thou  my  cup,  and  it 

With  joy  or  sorrow  fill, 
As  best  to  thee  may  seem  ; 

Choose  thou  my  good  and  ill ; 

Choose  thou  for  me  my  friends, 
My  sickness  or  my  health  ; 

Choose  thou  my  cares  for  me, 
My  poverty  or  wealth. 

Not  mine,  not  mine  the  choice, 
In  things  or  great  or  small  ; 

Be  thou  my  guide,  my  strength, 
My  wisdom,  and  my  all. 


ABIDE   WITH    US 

'T  is  evening  now  ! 
O  Saviour,  wilt  not  thou 
Enter  my  home  and  heart, 
Nor  ever  hence  depart, 
Even  when  the  morning  breaks. 
And  earth  again  awakes  ? 
Thou  wilt  abide  with  me, 
And  I  with  thee. 

The  world  is  old  ! 

Its  air  grows  dull  and  cold  ; 

Upon  its  aged  face 

The  wrinkles  come  apace  ; 

Its  western  sky  is  wan, 

Its  youth  and  joy  are  gone. 

O  Master,  be  our  light, 

When  o'er  us  falls  the  night. 

Evil  is  round  ! 
Iniquities  abound  ; 
Our  cottage  will  be  lone 
When  the  great  Sun  is  gone  ; 


! 


BONAR  —  MONSELL 


'77 


O  Saviour,  come  and  bless, 
Come  share  our  loneliness  ; 
We  need  a  comforter  ; 
Take  up  thy  dwelling  here. 


THE   MASTER'S  TOUCH 

IN  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard  ; 
In  the  rough  marble  beauty  hides  un 
seen  ; 

To 'wake  the  music  and  the  beauty  needs 
The  master's  touch,  the  sculptor's  chisel 
keen. 

Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skilful 

hand, 

Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die  ; 
Great  Sculptor,  hew   and  polish  us  ;   nor 

let, 
Hidden  and  lost,  thy  form  within  us  lie. 

Spare  not  the  stroke  ;  do  with  us  as  thou 

wilt  ; 
Let  there  be  nought  untinish'd,  broken, 

marr'd  ; 

Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  become 
Thy  perfect  image,  O  our  God  and  Lord. 

A  LITTLE  WHILE 

BEYOND  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 

I  shall  be  soon. 


Love,  rest,  and  home  I 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting, 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strewing 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

I  shall  be  soon.  J 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever  beating, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  frost  chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  rock  waste  and  the  river, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope  I 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


3joljn  ^Samuel  2£>etolep 


LITANY 

WHEN  my  feet  have  wander' d 

From  the  narrow  way 
Out  into  the  desert, 

Gone  like  sheep  astray  ; 
Soil'd  and  sore  with  travel 
Through  the  ways  of  men, 
All  too  weak  to  bear  me 
Back  to  Thee  again  : 
Hear  me,  O  my  Father  ! 
From  Thy  mercy-seat, 
Save  me  by  the  passion 
Of  the  bleeding  feet  I 


When  my  hands,  unholy 

Through  some  sinful  deed 
Wrought  in  me,  have  freshly 
Made  my  Saviour's  bleed  : 
And  I  cannot  lift  up 
Mine  to  Thee  in  prayer, 
Tied  and  bound,  and  holdan 
Back  by  my  despair  : 
Then,  my  Father  !  loose  them, 
Break  for  me  their  bands, 
Save  me  by  the  passion 
Of  the  bleeding  hands  I    : 


i78 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


When  my  thoughts,  unruly, 
Dare  to  doubt  of  Thee, 

And  thy  ways  to  question 
Deem  is  to  be  free  : 

Till,  through  cloud  and  darkness, 

Wholly  gone  astray, 

They  find  no  returning 

To  the  narrow  way  : 

Then,  my  God  !  mine  only 

Trust  and  truth  art  Thou  ; 

Save  me  by  the  passion 

Of  the  bleeding  brow  ! 


When  my  heart,  forgetful 

Of  the  love  that  yet, 
Though  by  man  forgotten, 

Never  can  forget ; 
All  its  best  affections 
Spent  on  things  below, 
In  its  sad  despondings 
Knows  not  where  to  go  : 
Then,  my  God  !  mine  only 
Hope  and  help  Thou  art  ; 
Save  me  by  the  passion 
Of  the  bleeding  heart ! 


jfrefccricft  IMIiam  jfafcer 


THE  WILL  OF   GOD 

I  WORSHIP  thee,  sweet  will  of  God  ! 

And  all  thy  ways  adore  ; 
And  every  day  I  live,  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Thou  wert  the  end,  the  blessed  rule 
Of  our  Saviour's  toils  and  tears  ; 

Thou  wert  the  passion  of  his  heart 
Those  three  and  thirty  years. 

And  he  hath  breath'd  into  my  soul 

A  special  love  of  thee, 
A  love  to  lose  my  will  in  his, 

And  by  that  loss  be  free. 

I  love  to  see  thee  bring  to  nought 

The  plans  of  wily  men  ; 
When  simple  hearts  outwit  the  wise, 

Oh,  thou  art  loveliest  then. 

The  headstrong  world  it  presses  hard 

Upon  the  church  full  oft, 
And  then  how  easily  thou  turn'st 

The  hard  ways  into  soft. 

I  love  to  kiss  each  print  where  thou 
Hast  set  thine  unseen  feet  ; 

I  cannot  fear  thee,  blessed  will  ! 
Thine  empire  is  so  sweet. 

When  obstacles  and  trials  seem 

Like  prison  walls  to  be, 
1  do  the  little  I  can  do, 

And  leave  the  rest  to  thee. 


I  know  not  what  it  is  to  doubt, 

My  heart  is  ever  gay  ; 
I  run  no  risk,  for,  come  what  will, 

Thou  always  hast  thy  way. 

I  have  no  cares,  O  blessed  will ! 

For  all  my  cares  are  thine  : 
I  live  in  triumph,  Lord  !  for  thou 

Hast  made  thy  triumphs  mine. 

And  when  it  seems  no  chance  or  change 
From  grief  can  set  me  free, 

Hope  finds  its  strength  in  helplessness, 
And  gayly  waits  on  thee. 

Man's  weakness,  waiting  upon  God, 

Its  end  can  never  miss, 
For  men  on  earth  no  work  can  do 

More  angel-like  than  this. 

Ride  on,  ride  on,  triumphantly, 
Thou  glorious  will,  ride  on  ! 

Faith's  pilgrim  sons  behind  thee  take 
The  road  that  thou  hast  gone. 

He  always  wins  who  sides  with  God, 

To  him  no  chance  is  lost  ; 
God's  will  is  sweetest  to  him,  when 

It  triumphs  at  his  cost. 

Ill  that  he  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unbless'd  good  is  ill  ; 
And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong, 

If  it  be  his  sweet  wilL 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM   FABER 


'79 


PARADISE 

O  PARADISE,  O  Paradise, 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest, 
Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land 
Where  they  that  lov'd  are  blest  ? 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 
All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God's  most  holy  sight. 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

The  world  is  growing  old  ; 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  and  free 

Where  love  is  never  cold  ? 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

Wherefore  doth  death  delay  ? 

Bright  death,  that  is  the  welcome  dawn 
Of  our  eternal  day. 

0  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

'T  is  weary  waiting  here  ; 

1  long  to  be  where  Jesus  is, 
To  feel,  to  see  him  near. 

0  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 
I  want  to  sin  no  more, 

1  want  to  be  as  pure  on  earth 
As  on  thy  spotless  shore. 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

I  greatly  long  to  see 
The  special  place  my  dearest  Lord 

Is  destining  for  me. 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

I  feel  't  will  not  be  long  ; 
Patience  !  I  almost  think  I  hear 
Faint  fragments  of  thy  song  ; 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 
AH  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God's  most  holy  sight. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN 

OH,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  his  part 
Upon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart  I 

He  hides  himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God  ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  he  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost  ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  him  most 

111  masters  good  ;  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think  ; 

His  ways  are  far  above, 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reach'd 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

Workman  of  God  !    Oh,  lose  not  heart, 
But  learn  what  God  is  like  ; 

And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 
Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  bless'd  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  he 

Is  most  invisible. 

Bless'd,  too,  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie, 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seem* 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God  ; 

And  right  the  day  must  win  ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin. 


i8o 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


TEACH   US   TO    DIE 

WHERE  shall  we  learn  to  die  ? 

Go,  gaze  with  steadfast  eye 

On  dark  Gethsemane 

Or  darker  Calvary, 

Where  through  each  lingering  hour 

The  Lord  of  grace  and  power, 

Most  lowly  and  most  high, 

Has  taught  the  Christian  how  to  die. 

When  in  the  olive  shade 
His  long  last  prayer  he  pray'd, 
When  on  the  cross  to  heaven 
His  parting  spirit  was  given, 
He  show'd  that  to  fulfil 
The  Father's  gracious  will, 
Not  asking  how  or  why, 
Alone  prepares  the  soul  to  die. 

No  word  of  anxious  strife, 

No  anxious  cry  for  life  ; 

By  scoff  and  torture  torn, 

He  speaks  not  scorn  for  scorn  ; 

Calmly  forgiving  those 

Who  deem  themselves  his  foes, 

In  silent  majesty 

He  points  the  way  at  peace  to  die. 

Delighting  to  the  last 
In  memories  of  the  past  ; 
Glad  at  the  parting  meal 
In  lowly  tasks  to  kneel ; 


Still  yearning  to  the  end 

For  mother  and  for  friend  ; 

His  great  humility 

Loves  in  such  acts  of  love  to  die. 

Beyond  his  depth  of  woes 
A  wider  thought  arose, 
Along  his  path  of  gloom, 
Thought  for  his  country's  doom  ; 
Athwart  all  pain  and  grief, 
Thought  for  the  contrite  thief  : 
The  far-stretch'd  sympathy 
Lives  on  when  all  beside  shall  die, 

Bereft,  but  not  alone, 

The  world  is  still  his  own  ; 

The  realm  of  deathless  truth 

Still  breathes  immortal  youth  ; 

Sure,  though  in  shuddering  dread, 

That  all  is  finished, 

With  purpose  fix'd  and  high 

The  friend  of  all  mankind  must  die. 

Oh,  by  those  weary  hours 

Of  slowly-ebbing  powers  ; 

By  those  deep  lessons  heard 

In  each  expiring  word  ; 

By  that  unfailing  love 

Lifting  the  soul  above, 

When  our  last  end  is  nigh, 

So  teach  us,  Lord,  with  thee  to  die. 


J)aII 


MY  TIMES  ARE   IN  THY  HAND 

MY  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

I  know  not  what  a  day 
Or  e'en  an  hour  may  bring  to  me, 
But  I  am  safe  while  trusting  thee, 
Though  all  things  fade  away. 
All  weakness,  I 
On  him  rely 

Who  fix'd  the  earth  and  spread  the  starry 
sky. 


My  times  are  in  thy  hand  f 

Pale  poverty  or  wealth, 
Corroding  care  or  calm  repose, 
Spring's  balmy  breath  or  winter's  snows, 
Sickness  or  buoyant  health,  — 
Whate'er  betide, 
If  God  provide, 
'Tis  for  the  best  ;  I  wish  no  lot  beside, 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 
Should  friendship  pure  illume 


NEWMAN    HALL  — ANNE  BRONTE  —  BLEW 


181 


And  strew  my  path  with  fairest  flowers, 
Or  should  I  spend  life's  dreary  hours 
In  solitude's  dark  gloom, 
Thou  art  a  friend, 
Till  time  shall  end 

Unchangeably  the  same  ;  in  thee  all  beau 
ties  blend. 

Mv  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

Many  or  few,  my  days 
I  leave  with  thee,  —  this  only  pray, 
That  by  thy  grace,  I,  every  day 
Devoting  to  thy  praise, 
May  ready  be 
To  welcome  thee 
Whene'er  thou  com'st  to  set  my  spirit  free. 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

Howe'er  those  times  may  end, 
Sudden  or  slow  my  soul's  release, 
Midst  anguish,  frenzy,  or  in  peace, 

I  'in  safe  with  Christ  my  friend. 


If  he  is  nigh, 
Howe'er  I  die, 
T  will  be  the  dawn  of  heavenly  ecstaiy. 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  f 

To  thee  I  can  intrust 
My  slumbering  clay,  till  thy  command 
Bids  all  the  dead  before  thee  ataud, 
Awaking  from  the  dust. 
Beholding  thee, 
What  bliss 'twill  be 
With  all  thy  saints  to  spend  eternity  ! 

To  spend  eternity 

In  heaven's  unclouded  light ! 
From  sorrow,  sin,  and  frailty  free, 
Beholding  and  resembling  thee,  — 
O  too  transporting  sight ! 
Prospect  too  fair 
For  flesh  to  bear  ! 

Haste  !  haste  !  my  Lord,  and  soon  trans 
port  me  there  ! 


Stnne  25rontc 


A   PRAYER 


MY  God  (oh,  let  me  call  thee  mine, 
Weak,  wretched  sinner  though  I  be), 

My  trembling  soul  would  fain  be  thine  ; 
My  feeble  faith  still  clings  to  thee. 

Not  only  for  the  past  I  grieve, 
The  future  fills  me  with  dismay  ; 

Unless  Thou  hasten  to  relieve, 
Thy  suppliant  is  a  castaway. 


I  cannot  say  my  faith  is  strong, 
I  dare  not  hope  my  love  is  great ; 

But  strength  and  love  to  thee  belong  ; 
Oh,  do  not  leave  me  desolate  ! 

I  know  I  owe  my  all  to  thee  ; 

Oh,  take  the  heart  I  cannot  give  ! 
Do  Thou  my  strength  —  my  Saviour  be, 

And  make  me  to  thy  glory  live. 


IDilliam 

0  LORD,  THY  WING  OUTSPREAD 

O  LORD,  thy  wing  outspread, 

And  us  thy  flock  infold  ; 
Thy  broad  wing  spread,  that  covered 

Thy  mercy-seat  of  old  : 
And  o'er  our  nightly  roof, 

And  round  our  daily  path, 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  and  hold  aloof 

The  devil  and  his  wrath. 


For  thou  dost  fence  onr  head, 

And  shield  —  yea,  thou  alone  — 
The  peasant  on  his  pallet-bed, 

The  prince  upon  his  throne. 
Make  then  our  heart  thine  ark, 

Whereon  thy  Mystic  Dove 
May  brood,  and  lighten  it,  when  dark, 

With  beams  of  peace  and  love  ; 


182 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


That  dearer  far  to  thee 
Than  gold  or  cedar-shrine 

The  bodies  of  thy  saints  may  be, 
The  souls  by  thee  made  thine  : 


So  nevermore  be  stirr'd 

That  voice  within  our  heart, 

The  fearful  word  that  once  was  heard, 
"  Up,  let  us  hence  depart !  " 


Cecil  £ ranceg 


THERE   IS   A   GREEN    HILL 

THERE  is  a  green  hill  far  away, 

Without  a  city  wall, 
Where  the  dear  Lord  was  crucified, 

Who  died  to  save  us  all. 

We  may  not  know,  we  cannot  tell 
What  pains  he  had  to  bear, 

But  we  believe  it  was  for  us 
He  hung  and  suffer'd  there. 

He  died  that  we  might  be  forgiven, 
He  died  to  make  us  good, 


That  we  might  go  at  last  to  heaven> 
Sav'd  by  his  precious  blood. 

There  was  no  other  good  enough 

To  pay  the  price  of  sin  ; 
He  only  could  unlock  the  gate 

Of  heaven,  and  let  us  in. 

O  dearly,  dearly  has  he  lov'd, 
And  we  must  love  him  too, 

And  trust  in  his  redeeming  blood, 
And  try  his  works  to  do. 


Cecilia 


THE   LOST  SHEEP 

("THE   NINETY   AND   NINE") 

THERE  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely  lay 

In  the  shelter  of  the  fold  ; 
But  one  was  out  on  the  hills  away, 

Far  off  from  the  gates  of  gold, 
Away  on  the  mountains  wild  and  bare, 
Away  from  the  tender  Shepherd's  care. 

"  Lord,  thou  hast  here  thy  ninety  and  nine  : 
Are  they  not  enough  for  thee  ?  " 

But  the  Shepherd  made  answer  :   "  'T  is  of 

mine 
Has  wander'd  away  from  me  ; 

And  although  the  road  be  rough  and  steep 

J  go  to  the  desert  to  find  my  sheep." 

But  none  of  the  ransom'd  ever  knew 
How  deep  were  the  waters  cross'd, 

Nor  how  dark  was  the  night  that  the  Lord 

pass'd  through 
Ere  he  found  his  sheep  that  was  lost. 


Out  in  the  desert  he  heard  its  cry  — 
Sick  and  helpless,  and  ready  to  die. 

"  Lord,  whence  are  those  blood-drops  all 

the  way, 

That  mark  out  the  mountain  track  ?  " 
"  They  were  shed  for  one  who  had  gone 

astray 

Ere  the  Shepherd  could  bring  him  back." 
"Lord,  whence  are  thy  hands  so  rent  and 

torn  ?  " 
"They   are   pierced  to-night   by  many   a 

thorn." 

But  all  through  the  mountains,  thunder- 
riven, 

And  up  from  the  rocky  steep, 
There  rose  a  cry  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 
"  Rejoice  !  I  have  found  my  sheep  ! " 
And  the  angels  echoed  around  the  throne, 
"Rejoice,  for  the   Lord   brings   back  his 
own  1 " 


BARING-GOULD  —  HAVERGAL 


183 


CHILD'S  EVENING  HYMN 

Now  the  day  is  over, 
Night  is  drawing  nigh, 

Shadows  of  the  evening 
Steal  across  the  sky. 

Now  the  darkness  gathers, 

Stars  begin  to  peep, 
Birds  and  beasts  and  flowers 

Soon  will  be  asleep. 

Jesu,  give  the  weary 
Calm  and  sweet  repose  ; 

With  thy  tenderest  blessing 
May  our  eyelids  close. 

Grant  to  little  children 
Visions  bright  of  thee  ; 

Guard  the  sailors  tossing 
On  the  deep  blue  sea. 


Comfort  every  sufferer 
Watching  late  in  paiii  ; 

Those  who  plan  some  evil 
From  their  sin  restrain. 

Through  the  long  night-watches 
May  thine  angels  spread 

Their  white  wings  above  me, 
Watching  round  my  bed. 

When  the  morning  wakens, 

Then  may  I  arise 
Pure  and  fresh  and  sinless 

In  thy  holy  eyes. 

Glory  to  the  Father, 

Glory  to  the  Son, 
And  to  thee,  bless'd  Spirit, 

Whilst  all  ages  run.    AMEN. 


GAVE   MY   LIFE   FOR   THEE 

I  GAVE  my  life  for  thee, 
My  precious  blood  I  shed 

That  thou  mightst  ransom'd  be, 
And  quickeu'd  from  the  dead. 

I  gave  my  life  for  thee  ; 

What  hast  thou  given  for  me  ? 


I  spent  long  years  for  thee 
In  weariness  and  woe, 

That  an  eternity 

Of  joy  thou  mightest  know. 

I  spent  long  years  for  thee  ; 

Hast  thou  spent  one  for  me  ? 

My  Father's  home  of  light, 
My  rainbow-circled  throne, 

I  left,  for  earthly  night, 

For  wanderings  sad  and  lone. 

I  left  it  all  for  thee  ; 

Hast  thou  left  aught  for  me  ? 


I  suffer'd  much  for  thee, 
More  than  thy  tongue  may  tell 

Of  bitterest  agony, 

To  rescue  thee  from  hell. 

I  suffer'd  much  for  thee  ; 

What  canst  thou  bear  for  me  ? 

And  I  have  brought  to  thee, 
Down  from  my  home  above, 

Salvation  full  and  free, 
My  pardon  and  my  love. 

Great  gifts  I  brought  to  thee  ; 

What  hast  thou  brought  to  me  ? 

Oh,  let  thy  life  be  given, 
Thy  years  for  him  be  spent, 

World-fetters  all  be  riven, 
And  joy  with  suffering  blent ; 

I  gave  myself  for  thee  : 

Give  thou  thyself  to  me  ? 


II 


THE  VICTORIAN    EPOCH 

>ERIOD     OF    TENNYSON,   ARNOLD,    BROWNING,  ROSSETTI,  AND   SWINBURNE) 

DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH:  APRIL  23,  1850 
ALFRED  TENNYSON  APPOINTED  LAUREATE:  NOVEMBER  21,  1850 


PRELUDE 

ENGLAND  !  since  Shakespeare  died  no  loftier  day 
For  thee  than  lights  herewith  a  century's  goal,  — 
Nor  statelier  exit  of  heroic  soul 

Conjoined  with  soul  heroic,  —  nor  a  lay 

Excelling  theirs  who  made  renowned  thy  sway 
Even  as  they  heard  the  billows  which  outroll 
Thine  ancient  sea,  and  left  their  joy  and  dole 

In  song,  and  on  the  strand  their  mantles  gray. 

Star-rayed  with  fame  thine  Abbey  windows  loom 
Above  his  dust  whom  the  Venetian  barge 
Bore  to  the  main ;  who  passed  the  two-fold  marge 

To  slumber  in  thy  keeping,  —  yet  make  room 
For  the  great  Laurif  er,  whose  chanting  large 

And  sweet  shall  last  until  our  tongue's  far  doom. 

E.  C.  S. 


THE  VICTORIAN   EPOCH 

(PERIOD  OF  TENNYSON,  ARNOLD,  BROWNING,  ROSSETTI,  AND  SWINBURNE) 
COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


frcbcticft 

THIRTY-FIRST  OF  MAY 

LWAKE  !  —  the  crimson  dawn  is  glowing, 

And  blissful  breath  of  Morn 
From  golden  seas  is  earthward  flowing 

Thro*  mountain-peaks  forlorn  ; 
Twixt  the  tall  roses,  and  the  jasmines  near, 
That  darkly  hover  in  the  twilight  air, 
see  the  glory  streaming,  and  I  hear 
The  sweet  wind  whispering  like  a  messen 
ger. 

'is  time  to  sing  !  — the  Spirits  of  Spring 

Go  softly  by  mine  ear, 

id  out  of  Fairyland  they  bring 

Glad  tidings  to  me  here  ; 
1  is   time  to  sing !  now   is   the   pride   of 
Youth 

Pluming  the  woods,  and  the  first  rose  ap 
pears, 

And  Summer  from   the   chambers  of  the 
South 

Is  coming  up  to  wipe  away  all  tears. 

;y  bring  glad  tidings  from  afar 
Of  Her  that  cometh  after 
To  fill  the  earth,  to  light  the  air, 

With  music  and  with  laughter  ; 
Ev'n  now  she  leaneth  forward,  as  she  stands, 
And  her   fire-wing'd   horses,  shod  with 

gold, 
Stream,  like   a   sunrise,  from   before   her 

hands, 

And  thro'  the  Eastern  gates  her  wheels 
are  roll'd. 


'T  is  time  to  sing  —  the  woodlands  ring 

New  carols  day  by  day  ; 
The  wild  birds  of  the  islands  sing 
Whence  they  have  flown  away  ; 
'T  is  time    to    sing :    the    nightingale    is 

come, 
And  'mid  the  laurels  chants  he  all  night 

long, 
And  bids  the  leaves  be  still,  the  winds  be 

dumb, 

And  like  the  starlight  flashes  forth  his 
song. 

Immortal  Beauty  from  above, 

Like  sunlight  breath'd  on  cloud, 
Touches  the  weary  soul  with  love, 

And  hath  unwound  the  shroud 
Of  buried  Nature  till  she  looks  again 

Fresh   in  infantine   smiles  and  childish 

tears, 
And  o'er  the  rugged  hearts  of  aeed  men 

Sheds  the  pure  dew  of  Youth  s  delicious 
years. 

The  heart  of  the  awaken'd  Earth 

Breathes  odorous  ecstasy  ; 
Let  ours  beat  time  unto  her  mirth, 

And  hymn  her  jubilee  ! 
The  glory  of  the  Universal  Soul 

Ascends  from  mountain-tops,  and  lowly 

flowers, 

The  mighty  pulses  throbbing  through  the 
Whole 

Call  unto  us  for  answering  life  in  ours. 


i88 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Arise  !  young  Queen  of  forests  green, 

A  path  was  strewn  for  thee 
With  hyacinth,  and  gold  bells  atween, 

And  red  anemone  ; 
Arise  !  young  Queen  of  beauty  and  delight, 

Lift  up  in  this  fair  land  thine  happy  eyes  ; 
The   valleys   yearn,  and   gardens   for  thy 
sight, 

But  chief  this  heart  that  prays  for  thee 
with  sighs. 

How  oft  into  the  opening  blue 

I  look'd  up  wistfully, 
In  hope  to  see  thee  wafted  thro' 

Bright  rifts  of  stormy  sky  ; 
Many  gray  moms,  sad  nights,  and  weary 

days, 
Without  thy  golden  smile  my  heart  was 

dying  ; 

Oh  !  in  the  valleys  let  me  see  thy  face, 
And  thy   loose   locks  adown  the  wood- 
walks  flying. 

Come,  with  thy  flowers,  and  silver  showers, 

Thy  rainbows,  and  thy  light  ; 
Fold  in  thy  robe  the  naked  Hours, 

And  fill  them  with  thy  might  ; 
Though  less  I  seek  thee  for  the  loveliness 

Thou  laughest  from  thee  over  land  and 

sea, 
Than  for  the  hues  wherein  gay  Fancies  dress 

My  drooping  spirit  at  the  sight  of  thee. 

Come,  with  thy  voice  of  thousand  joys, 

Thy  leaves,  and  fluttering  wings  ; 
Come  with  thy  breezes,  and  the  noise 

Of  rivulets  and  of  springs  ; 
Though  less  I  seek  thee  for  thine  harmo 
nies 
Of    winds  and   waters,   and   thy   songs 

divine, 

Than  for  that  Angel  that  within  me  lies, 
And   makes   glad   music    echoing    unto 
thine. 

O  Gardens  blossoming  anew  ! 

O  Rivers,  and  fresh  Rills  ! 
O  Mountains  in  your  mantles  blue  ! 

O  dales  of  daffodils  ! 
What  ye  can  do  no  mortal  spirit  can, 

Ye   have   a   strength   within  we  cannot 

borrow, 
Blessed  are  ye  beyond  the  heart  of  Man, 

Your  Joy,  your  Love,  your  Life  beyond 
all  Sorrow  ! 


THE  BLACKBIRD 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon  * 
The   Blackbird   sings   along   the   sunny 

breeze 
His  ancient  song  of  leaves,  and   summer 

boon  ; 
Rich  breath  of  hayfields   streams  thro* 

whispering  trees  ; 
And  birds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling 

wings, 
And  listen  fondly — while   the   Blackbird 

sings. 

How  soft  the  lovelight  of  the  West  re^ 

poses 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude, 

On   the  trim   cottage   with   its   screen  of 

roses, 
On  the  gray  belfry  with  its  ivy  hood, 

And  murmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel 
that  flings 

Its  bubbling  freshness  —  while  the  Black 
bird  sings. 

The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 

Seems   as   'twere   dreaming  in  a  dozy 

rest  ; 

The  scribbled  benches  underneath  the  porch 

Bask  in  the  kindly  welcome  of  the  West  ; 

But  the  broad  casements  of  the  old  Three 

Kings 

Blaze  like  a  furnace  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three  rosy  revellers  round  a  table  sit, 

And  thro'  gray  clouds  give  laws  unto  the 

realm, 

Curse  good  and  great,  but  worship  their 
own  wit, 

And  roar  of  fights,  and  fairs,  and  junket 
ings, 

Corn,  colts,  and  curs  —  the  while  the  Black 
bird  sings. 

Before  her  home,  in  her  accustom'd  seat. 
The   tidy    Grandam   spins   beneath    the 

shade 
Of  the  old  honeysuckle,  at  her  feet 

The  dreaming  pug,  and  purring  tabby 

laid  ; 

To  her  low  chair  a  little  maiden  clings, 
And  spells  in  silence  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 


FREDERICK  TENNYSON 


189 


Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 
Breathes  o'er  the  hamlet  with  its  gardens 

green, 

While  the  far  fields  with  sunlight  overflow'd 
Like  golden  shores  of  Fairyland  are  seen  ; 
Again,  the  sunshine  on  the  shadow  springs, 
And  fires  the  thicket  where  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

The  woods,  the  lawn,  the  peaked  Manor- 
house, 
With  its  peach-cover'd  walls,  and  rookery 

loud, 
The  trim,  quaint  garden  alleys,  screened 

with  boughs, 

The  lion-headed  gates,  so  grim  and  proud, 
The  mossy  fountain  with  its  murmurings, 
I  Lie  in  warm  sunshine  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 


The  ring  of  silver  voices,  and  the  sheen 
Of    festal    garments  —  and    my    Lady 

streams 

With  her  gay  court  across  the  garden  green  ; 
Some   laugh,  and  dance,  some  whisper 

their  love-dreams  ; 

And  one  calls  for  a  little  page  ;  he  strings 
Her  lute  beside  her  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 


A  little  while  —  and  lo  !  the  charm  is  heard, 
A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  Summer, 

steals 
Forth  from  the  noisy  guests   around  the 

board, 

Creeps  by  her  softly  ;  at  her  footstool 
kneels  ; 

when   she   pauses,   murmurs   tender 
things 

her  fond  ear  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

The  smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys  curl 

up  higher, 

And  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 
Upon  the  light ;  the  breeze  begins  to  tire  ; 

Half  way  to  sunset  with  a  drowsy  note 
The   ancient  clock    from   out    the   valley 

swings  ; 

Grandam  nods  —  and  still  the  Black 
bird  sings. 

IT  shouts  and  laughter  from  the  farmstead 

peal, 
Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  in  the  sun ; 


Thro'  narrow  gates  o'erladen  wagons  peel, 

And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run  ; 

While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  off,  and 

brings 
The  merry  tempest— and  the  Blackbird 

sings. 

On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 

Burns,  like  a  beacon, over  dale  and  stream; 
The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  and 

the  fun  ; 
The  Grandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be  her 

dream  ; 

Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings  ; 
The  day  is  dying  —  still  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Now  the  good  Vicar  passes  from  his  gate 
Serene,  with  long  white  hair  ;  and  in  his 

eye 
Burns  the  clear  spirit  that  hath  conquer'd 

Fate, 

And  felt  the  wings  of  immortality  ; 
His  heart  is  throng'd  with  great  imaginings, 
And  tender  mercies  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

Down  by  the  brook  he  bends  his  steps,  and 

thro' 

A  lowly  wicket ;  and  at  last  he  stands 
Awful  beside  the  bed  of  one  who  grew 
From    boyhood   with    him  —  who   with 

lifted  hands 

And  eyes,  seems  listening  to  far  welcoming*, 
And  sweeter  music  than  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Two  golden  stars,  like   tokens   from   the 

Blest, 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  from  the  setting 

sun  ; 
His  sinking  hands   seem   pointing  to  the 

West; 
He  smiles  as  though  he  said  —  "Thy  will 

be  done  : " 

His  eyes,  they  see  not  those  illuminings ; 
His  ears,  they  hear  not  what  the  Blackbird 

sings. 

FROM   "NIOBE" 

I  TOO  remember,  in  the  after  years, 
The  long-hair'd  Niobe,  when  she  was  old, 
Sitting  alone,  without  the  city  gates, 
Upon    the    ground ;    alone    she    sat,  and 

.mourn'd. 
Her  watchers,  mindful  of  her  royal  state, 


190 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Her  widowhood,  and  sorrows,  follow'd  her 
Far  off,  when  she  went  forth,  to  be  alone 
In  lonely  places  ;  and  at  set  of  sun 
They  won  her  back  by  some  fond  phantasy, 
By  telling  her  some  tale  of  the  gone  days 
Of  her  dear  lost  ones,  promising  to  show  her 
Some  faded  garland,  or  some  broken  toy, 
Dusty  and  dim,  which  they  had  found,  or 

feign'd 
To  have   found,  some   plaything  of   their 

infant  hours. 

Within  the  echoes  of  a  ruin'd  court 
She  sat  and  mourn'd,  with  her  lamenting 

voice, 

Melodious  in  sorrow,  like  the  sound 
Of  funeral  hymns  ;  for  in  her  youth  she  sang 
Along  the  myrtle  valleys  in  the  spring, 
Plucking  the  fresh  pinks  and  the  hyacinths, 
With  her  fair  troop  of  girls,  who  answer'd 

her 

Silverly  sweet,  so  that  the  lovely  tribe 
Were  Nature's  matchless  treble  to  the  last 
Delicious  pipe,  pure,  warbling,  dewy  clear. 
In  summer  and  in  winter,  that  lorn  voice 
Went  up,  like  the  struck  spirit  of  this  world, 
Making  the  starry  roof  of  heaven  tremble 
With  her  lament,  and  agony,  and  all 
The  crowned  Gods  in  their  high  tabernacles 
Sigh  unawares,  and  think  upon  their  deeds. 
Her  guardians  let  her  wander  at  her  will, 
For  all  could  weep  for  her  ;  had  she  not 

been 

The  first  and  fairest  of  that  sunny  land, 
And  bless'd  with  all  things  ;  doubly  crowii'd 

with  power 
And  beauty,  doubly  now  discrown'd  and 

fallen  ? 

Oh  !  none  would  harm  her,  only  she  herself  ; 
And  chiefly  then  when  they  would  hold  her 

back, 

And  sue  her  to  take  comfort  in  her  home, 
Or  in  the  bridal  chambers  of  her  youth, 
Or  in  the  old  gardens,  once  her  joy  and 

pride, 

Or  the  rose-bowers  along  the  river-shore 
She  lov'd  of  old,  now  silent  and  forsaken. 
For  then  she  fled  away,  as  though  in  fear, 
As  if  she  saw  the  spectres  of  her  hours 
Of  joyaunce  pass  before  her  in  the  shapes 
Of  her  belov'd  ones.     But  most  she  chose 
Waste  places,  where  the  moss  and  lichen 

crawl'd, 

And  the  wild  ivy  flutter'd,  and  the  rains 
Wept    thro'    the    roofless   ruins,   and    all 

seem'd 


To  mourn  in  symbols,  and  to  answer  to  her, 
Showing  her  outward  that  she  was  within. 
The  unregarding  multitude  pass'd  on, 
Because  her  woe  was  a  familiar  sight. 
But  some  there  were  that  shut  their  ears 

and  fled, 
And  they  were  childless  ;   the  rose-lipp'd 

and  young 

Felt  that  imperial  voice  and  desolate 
Strike  cold  into  their  hearts  ;  children  at 

play 
Were  smit  with  sudden  silence,  with  their 

toys 
Clutch'd  in  their  hands,  forgetful  of   the 

game. 

Aged  she  was,  yet  beautiful  in  age. 
Her  beauty,  thro'  the  cloud  of  years  and 

grief, 

Shone  as  a  wintry  sun  ;  she  never  smil'd, 
Save  when  a  darkness  pass'd  across  the  sun, 
And  blotted  out  from  her  entranced  eyes 
Disastrous  shapes  that  rode  upon  his  disk, 
Tyrannous  visions,  armed  presences  ; 
And  then  she  sigh'd  and  lifted  up  her  head, 
And  shed  a  few  warm  tears.     But  when  he 

rose, 

And  her  sad  eyes  unclos'd  before  his  beams, 
She  started  up  with  terrors  in  her  look, 
That  wither'd  up  all  pity  in  affright, 
And  ran  about,  like  one  with  Furies  torn, 
And  rent  her  hair,  and  madly  threaten'd 

Heaven, 

And  call'd  for  retribution  on  the  Gods, 
Crying,   "  O    save   me   from   Him,  He   is 

there  ; 

Oh,  let  me  wear  my  little  span  of  life. 
I  see  Him  in  the  centre  of  the  sun  ; 
His  face  is  black  with  wrath  !  thou  angry 

God, 

I  am  a  worthless  thing,  a  childless  mother,, 
Widow'd  and  wasted,  old  and  comfortless, 
But  still  I  am  alive  ;  wouldst  thou  take 

all? 
Thou  who  hast  snatch'd  my  hopes  and  m^ 

delights, 
Thou  who  hast  kill'd  my  children,  wouldst 

thou  take 

The  little  remnant  of  my  days  of  sorrow, 
Which  the  sharp  winds  of  the  first  winter 

days, 
Or  the  first  night  of  frost,  may  give  unto 

thee  ? 

For  never  shall  I  seek  again  that  home 
Where  they  are  not  ;  cold,  cold  shall  be  the 

hearth 


CHARLES  TENNYSON  TURNER 


191 


Where  they  were  gather'd,  cold  as  is  my 

heart  ! 

Oh  !  if  my  living  lot  be  bitterness, 
T  is  sweeter  than  to  think,  that,  if  I  go 
Down  to  the  dust,  then  I  shall  think  no  more 
Of  them  I  lov'd  and  lost,  the  thoughts  of 

whom 

Are  all  my  being,  and  shall  speak  no  more, 
In  answer  to  their  voices  in  my  heart, 
As  though  it  were  mine  ear,  rewording  all 
Their  innocent  delights,  and  fleeting  pains, 
Their  infant  fondnesses,  their  little  wants, 
And  simple  words.  Oh  !  while  I  am,  I 

dream 
Of  those  who  are  not ;  thus   my  anguish 

grows 
My  solace,  as  the  salt  surf  of  the  seas 


Clothes  the  sharp  crags  with  beauty."  Then 

her  mood 
Would    veer    to    madness,  like  a  wind/ 

change 
That  brings  up  thunder,  and  she  rais'd  her 

voice, 
Crying,  "  And  yet  they  are  not,  they  who 

were, 
And    never    more 

dreams  ! " 
And,  suddenly  becoming  motionless, 
The  bright  hue  from  her  cheeks  and  fore* 

head  pass'd, 

And,  full  of  awful  resignation,  fixing 
Her  large  undazzled  orbs  upon  the  sun, 
She  shriek'd,  "  Strike,  God,  thou  canst  not 

harm  me  more  I  " 


shall    be!     accursed 


€ennp£on  €umnr 


THE  LION'S  SKELETON 

How  long,  O  lion,  hast  thou  fleshless  lain  ? 
What   rapt    thy   fierce   and    thirsty   eyes 

away  ? 
First  came  the  vulture  :  worms,  heat,  wind, 

and  rain 

Ensued,  and  ardors  of  the  tropic  day. 
I  know  not  —  if  they  spar'd  it  thee  —  how 

long 
The   canker  sate    within    thy    monstrous 

mane, 
Till   it   fell  piecemeal,  and  bestrew'd  the 

plain, 
Or,  shredded  by  the  storming  sands,  was 

flung 

Again  to  earth  ;  but  now  thine  ample  front, 
Whereon  the  great  frowns  gather'd,  is  laid 

bare  ; 
The   thunders   of   thy   throat,  which   erst 

were  wont 

lo  scare  the  desert,  are  no  longer  there  ; 
Thy  claws  remain,  but  worms,  wind,  rain, 

and  heat 
Have  sifted  out  the  substance  of  thy  feet. 

THE  VACANT  CAGE 

OUR  little  bird  in  his  full  day  of  health 
With  his  gold-coated  beauty  made  us  glad, 
And  when  disease  approach'd   with  cruel 

stealth, 
A  sadder  interest  our  smiles  forbad. 


How  oft  we  watch  'd  him,  when  the  night 

hours  came, 
His  poor  head   buried  near  his  bursting 

heart, 
Which  beat  within  a  puffd  and  troubled 

frame  ; 

But  he  has  gone  at  last,  and  play  M  his  part  : 
The   seed-glass,  slighted  by  his  sickening 

taste, 

The  little  moulted  feathers,  saffron-tipp'd, 
The   fountain,  where   his  fever'd  bill  was 

dipp'd, 

The  perches,  which  his  failing  feet  embraced, 
All  these  remain  —  not  even  his  bath  re- 

mov'd  — 
But  where  's  the  spray  and  flutter  that  we 

lov'd  ? 

THE  LACHRYMATORY 

FROM  out  the  grave  of  one  whose  budding 

years 
Were  cropp'd  by  death,  when  Rome  was  in 

her  prime, 

I  brought  the  phial  of  his  kinsman's  tears, 
There  placed,  as  was  the  wont  of  ancient 

time; 
Round  me,  that  night,  in  meads  of  aspho 

del, 
The  souls  of  the  early  dead  did  come  and 


Drawn  by  that  flask  of  grief,  as  by  a 
That  long-imprison'd  shower  of  human  woe 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


As  round  Ulysses,  for  the  draught  of  blood, 
The  heroes  throng'd,  those  spirits  flock'd 

to  me, 
Where,  lonely,  with  that  charm  of  tears,  I 

stood  ; 

Two,  most  of  all,  my  dreaming  eyes  did  see  ; 
The  young  Marcellus,  young,  but  great  and 

good, 
And  Tully's  daughter,  mourn'd  so  tenderly. 


THE   BUOY-BELL 

How  like  the  leper,  with  his  own  sad  cry 
Enforcing  his  own  solitude,  it  tolls  ! 
That  lonely  bell  set  in  the  rushing  shoals, 
To  warn  us  from  the  place  of  jeopardy  S 
O  friend  of  man  !    sore-vex'd  by  ocean's 

power, 
The  changing  tides  wash  o'er  thee  day  by 

day  ; 
Thy  trembling  mouth  is  fill'd  with  bitter 

spray, 

Yet  still  thou  ringest  on  from  hour  to  hour  ; 
High  is  thy  mission,  though  thy  lot  is 

wild  — 

To  be  in  danger's  realm  a  guardian  sound  ; 
In  seamen's  dreams  a  pleasant  part  to  bear, 
And  earn  their  blessing  as  the  year  goes 

round, 
And  strike  the  key-note  of  each  grateful 

prayer, 
Breath 'd  in  their  distant  homes  by  wife  or 

child  ! 


THE   FOREST   GLADE 

As  one  dark  morn  I  trod  a  forest  glade, 

A  sunbeam  enter'd  at  the  further  end, 

And  ran  to  meet  me  thro'  the  yielding 
shade  — 

As  one,  who  in  the  distance  sees  a  friend, 

And,  smiling,  hurries  to  him  ;  but  mine 
eyes, 

Bewilder'd  by  the  change  from  dark  to 
bright, 

Received  the  greeting  with  a  quick  sur 
prise 

At  first,  and  then  with  tears  of  pure  de 
light  ; 

For  sad  my  thoughts  had  been  —  the  tem 
pest's  wrath 

Had  gloom 'd  the  night,  and  made  the 
morrow  gray  ; 


That    heavenly   guidance   humble    sorrow 

hath, 

Had  turn'd  my  feet  into  that  forest-way, 
Just  when  His  morning  light  came  down 

the  path, 
Among  the  lonely  woods  at  early  day. 


THE    LATTICE    AT    SUNRISE 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mus'd  and  pray'd> 
I  saw  my  lattice  prank'd  upon  the  wall, 
The   flaunting   leaves    and    flitting    birds 

withal  — 

A  sunny  phantom  interlaced  with  shade  ; 
"Thanks  be  to  heaven,"  in  happy  mood  I 

said, 

"  What  sweeter  aid  my  matins  could  befall 
Than  the  fair  glory  from  the  East  hath 

made  ? 
What  holy  sleights  hath  God,  the  Lord  of 

all, 

To  bid  us  feel  and  see  !  we  are  not  free 
To  say  we  see  not,  for  the  glory  comes 
Nightly  and  daily,  like  the  flowing  sea  ; 
His  lustre  pierceth  through  the  midnight 

glooms 
And,  at  prime  hour,  behold  !   He  follows 

me 
With  golden  shadows  to  my  secret  rooms." 


THE    ROOKERY 

METHOUGHT,  as  I  beheld  the  rookery  pass 
Homeward  at  dusk  upon  the  rising  wind, 
How  every  heart  in  that  close-flying  mass 
Was   well    befriended   by    the    Almighty 

mind  : 
He  marks  each  sable  wing  that  soars  or 

drops, 
He  sees  them   forth  at  morning  to  their 

fare, 

He  sets  them  floating  on  His  evening  air, 
He  sends  them  home  to  rest  on  the  tree- 
tops  ; 
And   when   through   umber'd    leaves    the 

night-winds  pour, 

With  lusty  impulse  rocking  all  the  grove, 
The  stress  is  measur'd  by  an  eye  of  love, 
No  root  is  burst,  though  all  the  branches 

roar  ; 

And,  in  the  morning,  cheerly  as  before, 
The   dark   clan  talks,  the  social  instincts 

move. 


CHARLES   TENNYSON   TURNER 


'93 


ORION 

How  oft  I  've  watch'd  thee  from  the  gar 
den  croft, 

[n  silence,  when  the  busy  day  was  done, 
shining  with  wondrous  brilliancy  aloft, 
4  -J  flickering  like  a  casement  'gainst  the 

sun  ! 
seen  thee  soar  from  out  some  snowy 

cloud, 
Which  held  the  frozen  breath  of  land  and 

sea, 
Tet  broke  and  sever 'd  as  the  wind  grew 

loud  — 

lut  earth-bound  winds  could  not  dismem 
ber  thee, 
Tor  shake  thy  frame  of  jewels  ;   I  have 

guess 'd 
it  thy  strange  shape  and  function,  haply 

felt 

charm  of  that  old  myth  about  thy  belt 
sword  ;  but,  most,  my  spirit  was  pos- 

sess'd 

His  great  Presence,  Who  is  never  far 
!Yom  his  light-bearers,  whether  man  or  star. 


TO   THE   GOSSAMER-LIGHT 

:   gleam,   that  ridest  on  the   gossa 
mer  ! 

[ow  oft  I  see  thee,  with  thy  wavering  lance, 
i'ilt  at  the  midges  in  their  evening  dance, 

gentle  joust  set  on  by  summer  air  ! 
[ow  oft  I  watch  thee  from  my  garden- 
chair ! 
Lnd,  failing  that,  I  search  the  lawns  and 

bowers, 
find  thee  floating  o'er  the  fruits  and 

flowers, 

id  doing  thy  sweet  work  in  silence  there, 
lou  art  the  poet's  darling,  ever  sought 
the  fair  garden  or  the  breezy  mead  ; 
wind  dismounts  thee  not ;  thy  buoyant 

thread 

Is  as  the  sonnet,  poising  one  bright  thought, 
That   moves   but  does  not  vanish  :  borne 

along 

Like  light,  —  a  golden   drift    through   all 
the  song ! 


LETTY'S   GLOBE 

WHEN  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third 

glad  year, 
And  her  young,  artless   words   began  to 

flow, 
One    day  we    gave    the    child  a  color'd 

sphere 
Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and 

know, 

By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 
She   patted  all   the   world  ;  old    empires 

peep'd 

Between  her  baby  fingers  ;  her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.     How  she 

leap'd, 

And  laugh'd  and  prattled  in  her  world 
wide  bliss  ; 
But  when  we  turu'd  her  sweet  unlearned 

eye 

On  our  own  isle,  she  rais'd  a  joyous  cry, 
"  Oh  !  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there  ! " 
And,  while   she   hid  all  England  with  a 

kiss, 
Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair  I 


HER   FIRST-BORN 

IT  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  de 
light  : 

And,  though  we  all  foresaw  his  early  doom, 
We  kept  the  fearful  secret  out  of  sight ; 
We   saw  the   canker,  but  she   kins'd   the 

bloom. 
And  yet  it   might  not  be  :  we  could   not 

brook 

To  vex  her  happy  heart  with  vague  alarms, 
To  blanch  with   tear  her  fond    intrepid 

look, 
Or  send  a  thrill  through  those  encircling 

arms. 

She  smil'd  upon  him,  waking  or  at  rest  : 
She  could  not  dream  her  little  child  would 

die: 
She   toss'd  him  fondly   with   an   upward 

eye: 

She  seem'd  as  buoyant  as  a  summer  spray, 
That  dances  with  a  blossom  on  its  breast, 
Nor  knows  how  soon  it  will  be  borne  away 


194 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


StlfrcD,  Slorfc  €rnnp£on 


THE   DESERTED   HOUSE 

LIFE  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 
Careless  tenants  they  ! 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light  ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

Come  away  :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

Come  away  :  for  Life  and  Thought 

Here  no  longer  dwell ; 

But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  stay'd  with  us  ! 

THE   LOTOS-EATERS 

"  COURAGE  !  "  he  said,  and  pointed  toward 

the  land, 
"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward 

soon." 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon, 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams  !  some,  like  a  downward 

smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 
And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows 

broke, 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 


They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 
From  the  inner  laud  :  far  off,  three  uioun« 

tain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood  sunset-flush'd  :  and,  dew'd  with  show« 

ery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven 

copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West :  thro'  mountain  clefts  the 

dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  ; 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the 

same  ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The   mild -eyed   melancholy  Lotos -eaters 


Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 

gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores  ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did 

make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  ;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no 

more  ; " 

And  all  at  once  they  sang, "  Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;  we  will  no  longei 

roam." 

CHORIC   SONG 

I 

THERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 


ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON 


'95 


Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 
Music  th:it  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-lea  v'd  flowers 

weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs 

in  sleep. 

II 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 

And  utterly  consum'd  with  sharp  distress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weari 
ness? 

All  things  have  rest :    why  should  we  toil 
alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 
I  Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  : 

Nor  never  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 
[Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm  ; 

Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 
I  Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown 
of  things  ? 

Ill 

!  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
ic  folded  leaf  is  wooed  from  out  the  bud 
rith  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed  ;  and  turning  yellow 
.  Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo  !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

IV 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 


Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripeu  toward  the 

grave 

In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall,  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or 

dreamful  ease. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward 
stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 
light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the 
height ; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray  ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence   of  mild-minded  melan 
choly  ; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  mem 
ory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn 
of  brass  ! 

VI 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears  :  but  all  hath  suffered 

change  : 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are 

cold: 

Our  sons  inherit  us  :  our  looks  are  strange  : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble 

joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 

sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great    deeds,   as    half-forgottel 

things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 
'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  apain. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death. 


196 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 
Sore°task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 
pilot-stars. 

VII 

But  propp'd  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blow 
ing  lowly) 

With  half-dropp'd  eyelid  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'   the  thick-twin'd 

vine  — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  falling 
Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  di 
vine  ! 
Only  te  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 

brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  be 
neath  the  pine. 

VIII 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak  : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  ^e very  winding  creek  : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mel 
lower  tone  : 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yel 
low  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  mo 
tion  we, 

Roll'd  to  starboard,  rolPd  to  larboard,  when 
the  surge  was  seething  free, 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his 
foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an 
equal  mind, 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 
reclin'd 

On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of 
mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 
bolts  are  hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 
clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the 
gleaming  world : 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 
wasted  lauds, 


Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake, 

roaring  deeps  and  fiery  sands, 
Clanging   fights,  and   flaming   towns,  and 

sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred 

in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient 

tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words 

are  strong  ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-us'd  race  of  men  that 

cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  witl 

enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of   wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil  ; 
Till   they  perish  and   they  suffer  —  some, 

't  is  whisper'd  —  down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs   at  last   on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than 

toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar  ; 
Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more. 

ULYSSES 

IT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know 

not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel  :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  lov'd  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and 

when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vex'd  the  dim  sea.     I  am  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known  :  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern 
ments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all  ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


'97 


Gleams  that  uutravell'd  world,  whose  mar 
gin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  pil'd  on 

life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  sav'd 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to   store  and  hoard 

myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-lov'd  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  iny  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I 

mine. 
There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her 

sail  : 
There   gloom   the  dark  broad  seas.      My 

mariners, 
Is   that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 

thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  oppos'd 
hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are 

old; 
Id  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil  ; 

ath  closes  all ;  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks  : 
The  long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon  climbs  : 

the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my 

friends, 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
1'usli  cff,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

(To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
)f  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
t  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 
i  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
V.nd  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 


Tho*  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ;  and  tbo* 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which 

days 
Mov'd  earth  and   heaven,  that  which  we 

are,  we  are  : 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 

will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield, 

SIR  GALAHAD 

MY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine  : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A* virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaitnts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  Isap  on  board  :  nc  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 


198 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs   from   brand  and 

mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  cloth'd  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  od.ors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky,       t 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


SIR    LAUNCELOT     AND    QUEEN 
GUINEVERE 


souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 


The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  pip'd  his  song  : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong  \ 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring  ; 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Clos'd  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mix'd  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set : 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  fast  she  fled  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this. 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

BREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


ALFRED,  LORD   TENNYSON 


199 


0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

.6ut  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


SONGS   FROM   "THE  PRINCESS" 

AS   THRO*  THE  LAND 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
Oh,  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  ! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
Oh,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


SWEET  AND   LOW 

i     •  • 

SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 
Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
>ver  the  rolling  waters  go, 
/ome  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
fhile  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

-•'tyfrO 
Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest; 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  : 
Bleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 


BUGLE  SONG 

THE  splendor  falls  on  castle  walla 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  K\ttTv. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  Hying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes, dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  fly  ing. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 


TEARS,   IDLE  TEARS 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 

mean, 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under 
world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dyine  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

square  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  1 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


20O 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


THY   VOICE   IS   HEARD 

THY  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


ASK   ME   NO   MORE 

ASK  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the 

sea  ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 

take  the  shape 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape  ; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :    what  answer  should  I 

give  ? 

I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee 

die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are 

seal'd  : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in 

vain  : 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


BURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty 

nation, 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  de 
plore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 


Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


Ill 


Lead  out  the  pageant  :  sad 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  groiVj 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow  ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  \e  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute  : 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew  ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seep 

no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
And  render  him  to  the  mould. 
Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 
There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


201 


And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss  ; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  : 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 
With  those  deep. voices  our  dead  captain 

taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
O  civic  mnse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like   an  honor'd 

guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 

and  with  priest, 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my 

rest?  " 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous 

man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea  ; 
His  foes  were  thine  ;  he  kept  us  free  ; 
O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 
For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 


Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor VI  rampart  lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  ba^, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  row 

In  anger,   wheel'd   on   Europe-shadowing 

wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 
On  that  loud   sabbath   shook   the   spoiler 

down  ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  I 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves 

away  ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  over 
threw. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 
And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  gnila, 
O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine  ! 
And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  Mid  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander  s  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him. 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


202 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


VII 

A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  for 
get* 
Confus'd   by   brainless   mobs   and  lawless 

Powers  ; 
Thank  Him  who  isl'd  us  here,  and  roughly 

set 
His   Briton   in   blown   seas   and   storming 

showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept 

it  ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  con 
trol  ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the 

soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That   sober   freedom  out  of   which   there 

springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings  ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of 

mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever  ;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  silent  ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke  ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power  ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low  ; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  re 
buke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

right : 

Truth -teller  was    our    England's   Alfred 
nam'd  ; 


Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  sham'd. 


VIII 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 
Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scal'd 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 

Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure  : 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  sav'ct 

from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumin'd  cities  flame. 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


IX 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 


ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON 


203 


Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  .not  see  : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 
brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere  ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will  ; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 
roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 
trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's 
ears  : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs 
and  tears  : 

The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  disap 
pears  ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 

Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 

Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT 
BRIGADE 


league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

«  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  I 

Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said  : 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  I" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay  M  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm  'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash  'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke  ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell. 


204 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade1? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 

NORTHERN   FARMER 

OLD   STYLE 

WHEER  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin' 

'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse  ?    thourt  nowt  o'  a  noorse  :  whoy, 

Doctor's  abean  an'  agoan  : 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale  :  but 

I  beaut  a  fool : 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin'  to 

break  my  rule. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what 's 

nawways  true  : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things 

that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I 

bean  'ere. 
An'  I  Ve  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight 

for  foorty  year. 

Parson 's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  'ere 

o'  my  bed. 
"  The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you l  to  'iss^n, 

my  friend,"  a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an 's  toithe  were 

due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond  : 
I  done  my  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.  I  reckons  I  'annot  sa 
mooch  to  larn. 

But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Har 
ris's  barne. 

Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire 
an'  choorch  an'  staate, 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin 
the  raate. 

An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  chooch  afoor  moy 

Sally  wur  dead, 
An*  'card  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a 

buzzard-clock  2  ower  my  'cad, 
lou  as  in  hour.         2  Cockchafer.         3  Bittern. 


An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I 
thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 

An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said 
an'  I  coom'd  away. 

Bessy  Marris's  barne  I  tha  knaws  she  laaid 

it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad 

un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass,  tha 

mun  understond  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says 

it  easy  an'  freea, 
"  The  almoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'isse'n, 

my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun 

said  it  in  'aaste  : 
But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a 

stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw,  naw, 

tha  was  not  born  then  ; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eard  'um 

mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,8  fur  I  'card  'um 

about  an'  about, 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raav'd 

an'  rembled  'um  out. 

Reaper's  it  wur  ;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer 

a-laaid  of  'is  faace 
Down  i'  the  woild  enemies  4  afoor  I  coom'd 

to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toaner  6  'ed  shot  'um 

as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize  —  but 

git  ma  my  aale. 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste  :  theer  warn't 

not  feead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook 

at  it  now  — 
Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer' s 

lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor1  yows  upon  it   an'  some  on  it 

down  i'  seead.6 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a 

stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plo\i 

thruff  it  an'  all, 

4  Anemones.         5  One  or  other.         6  Clover. 


ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON 


2C5 


If  godamoighty  an*  parson  'ud  uobbut  let 

ma  alolin, 
Mea,  vvi'  halite  h.xmderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's, 

an'  lond  o'  my  olin. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a 's  doin' 
a-taakiu'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beiint  wonu  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yon 
der  a  pea  ; 

An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  dear 
a'  dear  ! 

And  1  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michael 
mas  ilium  year. 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a 

'aapoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins  —  a  uiver 

mended  a  fence  : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an' 

taiike  ma  now 
Wi'  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby 

hoiilms  to  plow ! 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  srnoiles  when  they  seeas 

ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen,  naw  doubt,  "  what  a  man  a 

bea  sewer-loy  ! " 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin 

fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'All  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy 

duty  boy  hall. 

Squoire 's  i'  Lunnon,  an*  summun  I  reckons 

'ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa 's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot 

muddles  ma  quok  ; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give 

it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins  —  a  niver  rem- 

bles  the  stoans. 

But  summun  'nil  come  ater  mea  mayhap 

wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi' 

the  Divil's  can  team. 
Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they 

says  is  sweet, 
But   sin'   I   muu   doy   I    mun   doy,  for   I 

could  n  abear  to  see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an*  doesn  bring 

ma  the  aiile  ? 
Doctor 's  a'  toattler,  lass,  an  a 's  hallus  i'  the 

owd  taiile  ; 


I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  Hoy  ; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I  tell  tha,  an*  if  I  mun  doy 

I  muu  doy. 


THE   DAISY 

WRITTEN  AT   EDINBURGH 

O  LOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine, 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine  ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heav'd  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue  ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice^ 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim  ; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleas'd  us  most, 
Not  the  clipp'd  palm  of  which  they  boast) 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 


Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent, 
A  light  amid  its  olives  given  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 


206 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


We  lov'd  that  hall  tho'  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd, 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  cross'd  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma  ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles  ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The  height,   the  space,  the   gloom,   the 

glory  ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como  ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded  ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  The  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 


Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea  ; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by  : 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and  Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me^ 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


THE   FLOWER 

ONCE  in  a  golden  hour 
I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Curs'd  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 
But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


207 


Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


COME     INTO    THE    GARDEN, 
MAUD 

COME  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  nmsk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  wHh  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
0  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 


And  the  soul  of  the  row  went  into  my 

blood,  • 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall  : 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 

the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  §c 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  doz'd  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  doue, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,   little  head,  sunning  over  with 

curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 
The   red   rose   cries,   "  She  is  near,  she  if 
near  ; " 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late ; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear  ; " 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait."      f 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthv  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  treml'U'  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


208 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


THE  SHELL 
FROM  "MAUD" 

SEE  what  a  lovely  shell, 
•Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ! 

What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he- stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water- world  ? 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  ! 


THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 

FROM    "  IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING  " 

THEN  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge, 

Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms, 
Black-stol'd,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  — 

by  these 
Three   Queens   with  crowns  of  gold  :  and 

from  them  rose 

A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 


Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  laud,  where   no  one 

comes, 
Or  hath    come,  since    the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the 

barge." 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loos'd  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chaf'd 

his  hands, 
And  calPd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a  brow 
Strip'd  with  dark  blood  :  fur  all  his   face 

was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with 

drops 
Of  onset  ;   and    the    light    and    lustrous 

curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dai's-throne  —  were  parch'd 

with  dust  ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose,, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 

his  lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest,  • 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings,, 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 

For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When    every    morning    brought    a   noble 

chance, 
And   every   chance    brought   out   a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolv'd 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world, 


ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON 


209 


And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among    new     men,   strange    faces,   other 

minds." 

And  slowly  auswer'd   Arthur   from  the 

barge  : 
1  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 

new, 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
it  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 

Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  liv'd  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within   himself  make   pure  !  but 

thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray    for    my     soul.     More     things    are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams   of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and    those  who  call 

them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For    all    my    mind    is    clouded    with    a 

doubt)  — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard 

lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer 

sea, 
Where   I   will    heal  me   of  my  grievous 

wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Mov'd   from   the   brink,    like   some   full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold   plume,  and    takes 

the  flood 
With     swarthy     webs.     Long    stood    Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 


Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 

dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

RIZPAH 

WAILING,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  ore? 

land  and  sea  — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "  0  mother, 

come  out  to  me." 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  be 

knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and  the 

full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear ;  they  would 

spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm 

rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am 

led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find 

myself  drench'd  with  the  rain. 

Anything  fallen  again  ?    nay  —  what  was 

there  left  to  fall  ? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number'd 

the  bones,  I  have  hidden  them  all. 
What  am  I  saying?  and  what  are  you  t 

do  you  come  as  a  spy  ? 
Falls  ?  what  falls  ?  who  knows  ?     As  the 

tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 

Who  let  her  in  ?  how  long  1ms  she  been  ? 

you  —  what  have  you  heard  ? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ?  you  never  have 

spoken  a  word. 

0  —  to  pray   with   me  —  yes  —  a  lady  — 

none  of  their  spies  — 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and 
begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

Ah  —  you,  that  have  liv'd  so  soft,  what 
should  you  know  of  the  night, 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the 
bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 

1  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep  — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together  —  and 
now  you  may  go  your  way. 

Nay  —  for  it 's  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to  sit 

by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 

only  an  hour  of  life. 


210 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 

went  out  to  die. 
"  They  dar'd  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  and  he 

never  has  told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipp'd  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once 

when  he  was  but  a  child  — 
"  The  farmer  dar'd  me  to  do  it,"  he  said  ; 

he  was  always  so  wild  — 
And    idle  —  and    could  n't   be   idle  —  my 

Willy  —  he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have   made  him  a  sol 
dier  ;  he  would  have  been  one  of  his 

best. 

But  he  liv'd  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and 

they  never  would  let  him  be  good  ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail, 

and  he  swore  that  he  would  ; 
And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse, 

and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows  —  I  '11  none 

of  it,  said  my  son. 

I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge   and   the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own' truth  —  but  they  kill'd  him, 

they  kill'd  him  for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show  — 

he  had  always  borne  a  good  name  — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief  —  and  then  put 

away  —  is  n't  that  enough  shame  ? 
Dust  to  dust  —  low  down  —  let  us  hide  ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare 

at  him,  passing  by. 
God  'ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven   and 

horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who 

kill'd  him  and  haug'd  him  there. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had  bid 

him  my  last  goodbye  ; 
They  had  fasten'd  the   door   of  his  cell, 

"  O  mother  !  "  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  could  n't   get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say, 
And    now   I   never   shall    know  it.     The 

jailer  forced  me  away. 

Then  since  I  could  n't  but  hear  that  cry  of 

my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seiz'd  me   and   shut   me   up  :    they 

fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 
"  Mother,  O  mother  !  "  —  he  call'd  in  the 

dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 


They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me  — 

you  know  that  I  could  n't  but  hear  ; 

And  then  at   the  last   they   found   I   had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 

They     let    me    abroad     again  —  but   the 
creatures  had  work'd  their  will. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my 

bone  was  left  — 
I  stole  them   all   from  the  lawyers  —  and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft  ?  — 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had   suck'd  me, 

the    bones    that    had    laugh'd   and 

had  cried  — 
Theirs  ?      O   no  !     they   are    mine  —  not 

theirs  —  they  had  mov'd  in  my  side. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scar'd  by  the  bones  ? 

I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried  'em  all  — 
I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old  —  in  the  night 

by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My   Willy    'ill   rise   up   whole   when  the 

trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid 

him  in  holy  ground. 

They  would   scratch  him  up  —  they  would 

hang  him  again  on  the  cursed  tree. 
Sin  ?     O  yes  —  we  are  sinners,  I  know  — 

let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's 

good  will  toward  men — 
"  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord  " 

—  let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
"  Full   of  compassion  and  mercy  —  long- 
suffering."     Yes,  O  yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder  —  the 

Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He  '11  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for 

the  worst  of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last  —  I  have  heard  it 

in  church  —  and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering  —  O  long-suffering  —  yes,  as  the 

Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind 

and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 

Heard,  have  you  ?  what  ?  they  have  told 

you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it  ?  are  they  his  mother  ? 

are  you  of  his  kin  ? 
Heard  !  have   you   ever  heard,   when  the 

storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and  the 

sea  that  'ill  moan  like  a  man  ? 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


211 


Election,  Election  and  Reprobation  —  it 's 

all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall 

not  find  him  in  Hell. 
For  I  car'd  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the 

Lord  has  look'd  into  my  care, 
And  He  means  me,  I  'ni  sure,  to  be  happy 

with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

And  if  he  be  lost  —  but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire  : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my 

boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  —  go,  go, 

you  may  leave  me  alone  — 
You   never  have  borne  a  child  —  you  are 

just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  think  that 
you  mean  to  be  kind, 

But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 
Willy's  voice  in  the  wind  — 

The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright  —  he  us'd 
but  to  call  in  the  dark, 

And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church 
and  not  from  the  gibbet  —  for  hark  ! 

Nay  —  you  can  hear  it  yourself  —  it  is 
coming  —  shaking  the  walls  — 

"Willy  —  the  moon's  in  a  cloud  —  Good 
night.  I  am  going.  He  calls. 

FLOWER    IN    THE    CRANNIED 
WALL 

FLOWER  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


SONG  IN  "THE  FORESTERS"* 

THERE  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts, 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

And  these  will  strike  for  England 
And  man  and  maid  be  free 


To  foil  and  spoil  the  tyrant 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  wives  likt    Kn^lish  wives, 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  l>e  ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  the  English  maids. 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

And  these  shall  wed  with  freemen, 
And  all  their  sous  be  free, 

To  sing  the  songs  of  England 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 


VASTNESS 

MAXT  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs 
after  many  a  vanish'd  face, 

Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with 
the  dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 

Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  —  as  this  poor 
earth's  pale  history  runs,  — 

What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the 
gleam  of  a  million  million  of  suns  ? 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side, 
truthless  violence  mourn'd  by  the 
Wise, 

Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a 
popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  lies  ; 

Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious 

annals  of  army  and  fleet, 
Death  for  the  right  cause,  death   for  the 

wrong  cause,    trumpets  of  victory, 

groans  of  defeat ; 

Innocence    seeth'd  in  her  mother's   milk^ 

and     Charity    setting    the    martyi 

aflame  ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with    the  banner  ot 

Freedom,  and   recks  not   to  ruin  a 

realm  in  her  name  ; 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the 

gloom   of  doubts   that  darken   the 

schools  ; 
Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand, 

follow'd  up  by  her  vassal  legioi 

fools  ; 


*  Copyright,  1892,  by  MACKILLAM  A  Co. 


212 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her 
spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and 
her  corn  ; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbors,  famish 
ing  populace,  wharves  forlorn  ; 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise  ; 

gloom  of  the  evening,  Life  at  a  close  ; 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  downway 

with  her  flying  robe  and  her  poison'd 


Pain,  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of 

Pleasure,  a  worm  which  writhes  all 

day,  and  at  night 
Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper, 

and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse  of 

the  light ; 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded 
harlots  ;  honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the 
bone  ; 

Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty  ;  Flattery 
gilding  the  rift  in  a  throne  ; 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trum 
pet  a  jubilant  challenge  to  Time  and 
to  Fate  ; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on 
all  the  laurell'd  graves  of  the  Great  ; 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  mar- . 

riage,  no  regrets  for  aught  that  has 

been, 
Household    happiness,    gracious   children, 

debtless  competence,  golden  mean  ; 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and 
pigmy  spites  of  the  village  spire  ; 

Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle, 
and  vows  that  are  snapp'd  in  a  mo 
ment  of  fire  ; 

He  that  has  liv'd  for  the  lust  of  a  minute, 
and  died  in  the  doing  it,  flesh  with 
out  mind ; 

He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till 
Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his  kind  ; 

Spring    and    Summer   and    Autumn   and 

Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolutions 

of  earth  ; 
All     new-old     revolutions    of     Empire  — 

change  of  the  tide  —  what  is  all  of  it 

worth  ? 


What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences, 
poesy,  varying  voices  of  prayer  ? 

All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all 
that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair  ? 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in 
being  our  own  corpse-coffins  at  last, 

Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence, 
drown'd  in  the  deeps  of  a  meaning 
less  Past  ? 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom, 
or  a  moment's  anger  of  bees  in  their 
hive  ?  — 

Peace,  let  it  be  !  for  I  loved  him,  and  love 
him  for  ever  :  the  dead  are  not  dead 
but  alive. 

THE   SILENT   VOICES* 

WHEN  the  dumb  Hour,  cloth'd  in  black, 
Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed, 
Call  me  not  so  often  back, 
Silent  Voices  of  the  dead, 
Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me, 
And  the  sunlight  that  is  gone  ! 
Call  me  rather,  silent  Voices, 
Forward  to  the  starry  track 
Glimmering  up  the  heights  beyond  me 
On,  and  always  on  ! 

CROSSING  THE   BAR 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  bound* 
less  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and 
Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  cross'd  the  bar. 


*  Copyright,  1892,  by  MACMILLAN  &  Co. 


BEACONSFIELD  —  WESTVVOOD 


of  25fflton£fid& 

(BENJAMIN  D'ISRAELI) 
WELLINGTON  Tlie  breath  ordain'd  of  Nature.    Thy  calm 

NOT  only  that  thy  puissant  arm  could  bind 
The  tyrant  of  a  world ;  and,  conquering  Fate, 
Enfranchise  Europe,  do  I  deem  thee  great  ; 
But  that  in  all  thy  actions  I  do  find 
Exact  propriety  :  no  gusts  of  mind 
Fitful  and  wild,  but  that  continuous  state 
Of  order'd  impulse  mariners  await 
In  some  benignant  and  enriching  wind,  — 


Recalls  old  Rome,  as  much  as  thy  high 

deed; 

Duty  thine  only  idol,  and  serene 
When  all  are  troubled  ;  in  the  utmost  need 
Prescient  ;  thy  country's  servant  ever  eeen, 
Yet  sovereign  of    thyself,   whate'er  may 

speed. 


0  WIND   OF   THE  MOUNTAIN! 

0  WIND  of   the  Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear ! 

1  have  a  prayer  to  whisper  in  thine  ear  : — 
Hush,  pine-tree,  hush  !      Be    silent,  syca 
more  ! 

Cease  thy  wild  waving,  ash-tree,  old  and 

hoar  ! 
Flow  softly,  stream  !      My  voice  is  faint 

with  fear  — 
O  Wind   of  the   Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  ! 

In  the  dull  city,  by  the  lowland  shore, 
Pale  grows  the  cheek,  so  rosy-fresh  of  yore. 
Woe  for  the  child  —  the  fair  blithe-hearted 

child  — 
Once    thy  glad   playmate    on   the   breezy 

wild  ! 
Hush,  pine-tree,  hush  !  —  my  voice  is  faint 

with  fear  — 
Wind   of  the   Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  ! 

Pale  grows  the  cheek,  and  dim  the  sunny 

eyes, 

And  the  voice  falters,  and  the  laughter  dies. 
Woe  for  the  child  !     She  pines,  on  that  sad 

shore, 

For  the  free  hills  and  happy  skies  of  yore. 
Hush,  river,  hush  !  —  my  voice  is  faint  with 

fear  — 
0  Wind   of   the   Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  t 


O  Wind  of  the  Mountain,  thou  art  swift 

and  strong  — 
Follow,  for  love's  sake,  though  the  way  be 

long. 

Follow,  oh  1  follow,  over  down  and  dale, 
To  the  far  city  in  the  lowland  vale. 
Hush,  pine-tree,  hush  !  —  my  voice  is  faint 

with  fear  — 
O  Wind   of  the  Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  I 

Kiss  the  dear  lips,  and  bid  the  laughters 

rise  ; 
Flush  the  wan  cheek,  and  brighten  the  dim 

eyes  ; 
Sing  songs  of  home,  and  soon,  from  grief 

and  pain, 
Win  back   thy  playmate,  blessed  Wind, 

again  1 
Win  back  my  darling  —  while  away  my 

fear  — 
O  Wind  of  the  Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear ! 

IN   THE  GOLDEN   MORNING  OF 
THE  WORLD 

IN  the  golden  morning  of  the  world, 
When  creation's  freshness  was  unfurl'd, 
Had  earth  truer,  fonder  hearts  than  now  ? 
One,  at  least,  in  this  our  day,  I  know, 
(Whisper  soft,  a*  /  benedicite  /) 
Faithful-fond  as  any  heart  could  be 
In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world. 


214 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


And  were  faces,  in  that  orient  time, 
Flush'd,    in   sooth,  with  more  resplendent 

prime, 

More  consummate  loveliness  than  now  ? 
Nay,  one  maiden  face,  at  least,  I  know 
(Whisper  soft,  a h  /  benedicite  !) 
Just  as  fair  as  any  face  could  be 
In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world. 


But  dark  shadows  reign,  and  storms  are 

rife, 

In  the  once  serene  clear  heaven  of  life. 
Oh  !  sweet  angel,  at  the  shining  gate, 
By  God's  mercy,  keep  one  earthly  fate, 
One  dear  life  —  ah  I  benedicite  ! 
Happy,  calm,  as  any  such  could  be 
In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world  ! 


2Crti)ur 


IN   A   LECTURE-ROOM 

AWAY,  haunt  thou  not  me, 

Thou  vain  Philosophy  ! 

Little  hast  thou  bestead, 

Save  to  perplex  the  head, 

And  leave  the  spirit  dead. 

Unto  thy  broken  cisterns  wherefore  go, 

While  from  the  secret  treasure-depths  be 
low, 

Fed  by  the  skyey  shower, 

And  clouds  that  sink  and  rest  on  hill-tops 
high, 

Wisdom  at  once,  and  Power, 

Are  welling,  bubbling  forth,  unseen,  in 
cessantly  ? 

Why  labor  at  the  dull  mechanic  oar, 

When  the  fresh  breeze  is  blowing, 

And  the  strong  current  flowing, 

Right  onward  to  the  Eternal  Shore  ? 

A  PROTEST 

LIGHT  words  they  were,  and  lightly,  falsely 

said  ; 
She  heard  them,   and   she   started,  —  and 

she  rose, 
As    in    the    act    to    speak  ;    the    sudden 

thought 

And  unconsider'd  impulse  led  her  on. 
In  act  to  speak  she  rose,  but  with  the  sense 
Of  all  the  eyes  of  that  mix'd  company 
Now  suddenly  turn'd  upon  her,  some  with 

age 

Harden'd  and  dull'd,  some  cold  and  criti 
cal ; 

Some  in  whom  vapors  of  their  own  conceit, 
As   moist    malarious    mists   the   heavenly 

stars, 
Still  blotted  out  their  good,  the   best   at 

best 


Clougl) 


By  frivolous  laugh  and  prate  conventional 

All  too  untun'd  for  all  she  thought  to 
say, — 

With  such  a  thought  the  mantling  blood  to 
her  cheek 

Flush'd  up,  and  o'er-flush'd  itself,  blank 
night  her  soul 

Made  dark,  and  in  her  all  her  purpose 
swoon'd. 

She  stood  as  if  for  sinking.     Yet  anon, 

With  recollections  clear,  august,  sublime, 

Of  God's  great  truth,  and  right  immuta 
ble, 

Which,  as  obedient  vassals,  to  her  mind 

Came  summon'd  of  her  will,  in  self-nega 
tion 

Quelling  her  troublous  earthly  conscious 
ness, 

She  queen'd  it  o'er  her  weakness.  At  the 
spell 

Back  roll'd  the  ruddy  tide,  and  leaves  her 
cheek 

Paler  than  erst,  and  yet  not  ebbs  so  far 

But  that  one  pulse  of  one  indignant 
thought 

Might  hurry  it  hither  in  flood.  So  as  she 
stood 

She  spoke.  God  in  her  spoke,  and  made 
her  heard. 

QUA   CURSUM   VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalm'd  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried  ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 


ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH 


215 


E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 
Brief  absence  join'd  anew  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  fill'd, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steer'd  : 
Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  will'd, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appear'd  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !  On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !  In  light,  in  darkness  too, 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass 

guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last ! 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 
O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 


;FROM"THE  BOTHIE  OF  TOBER- 
NA-VUOLICH" 

THE   BATHERS 

THERE  is  a  stream,  I  name  not  its  name, 
lest  inquisitive  tourist 

Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  lion,  and  get  it  at 
last  into  guide-books, 

Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unexplor'd 
in  the  folds  of  great  mountains, 

Falling  two  miles  through  rowan  and 
stunted  alder,  enveloped 

Then  for  four  more  in  a  forest  of  pine, 
where  broad  and  ample 

Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with  heath 
ery  slopes  on  both  sides  : 

Broad  and  fair  the  stream,  with  occasional 
falls  and  narrows  ; 

But,  where  the  glen  of  its  course  ap 
proaches  the  vale  of  the  river, 

Met  and  block'd  by  a  huge  interposing 
mass  of  granite, 

Scarce  by  a  channel  deep-cut,  raging  up, 
and  raging  onward, 

Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage  so  nar 
row  a  lady  would  step  it. 


There,  across  the  great  rocky  wharves,  a 

wooden  bridge  goes, 
Carrying   a    path   to   the    forest;    below, 

three  hundred  yards,  say, 
Lower    in    level    some    twenty-five    feet, 

through  flats  of  shingle, 
Stepping-stones  and  a  cart-track  cross  in 

the  open  valley. 
But  in   the   interval  here  the  boiling, 

pent-up  water 
Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  attaining  a 

basin, 
Ten  feet  wide  and   eighteen  long,  with 

whiteness  and  fury 
Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid,  pure, 

a  mirror  ; 
Beautiful  there  for  the  color  deriv'd  from 

green  rocks  under ; 
Beautiful,   most   of   all,   where    beads   of 

foam  up-rising 

Mingle  their  clouds  of  white  with  the  deli 
cate  hue  of  the  stillness. 
Cliff  over  cliff  for  its  sides,  with  rowan  and 

pendant  birch  boughs, 
Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at   the 

bridge  and  pathway, 
Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by  wood 

and  rocky  projection. 
You  are  shut  in,  lett  alone  with  yourself 

and  perfection  of  water, 
Hid  on  all  sides,  left  alone  with  yourself 

and  the  goddess  of  bathing. 
Here,  the  pride  of  the  plunger,  you  stride 

the  fall  and  clear  it ; 
Here,  the  delight  of  the  bather,  you  roll  in 

beaded  sparklings, 
Here  into  pure   green   depth   drop  down 

from  lofty  ledges. 
Hither,  a  month  agone,  they  had  come, 

and  discover'd  it ;  hither 
(Long  a  design,  but  long  unaccountably  left 

unaccomnlish'd), 
Leaving  the  well-known  bridge  and  path* 

way  above  to  the  forest, 
Turning  below  from  the  track  of  the  carte. 

over  stone  and  shingle, 
Piercing  a  wood,  and  skirting  a  narrow  and 

natural  causeway 
Under  the  rocky  wall  that  hedges  the  hed 

of  the  streamlet, 
Rounded  a  craggy  point,  and  saw  on  a  scd- 

den  before  them 

Slabs  of  rock,  and  a  tiny  beach,  and  perfec 
tion  of  water, 


2l6 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Picture-like  beauty,  seclusion  sublime,  and 

the  goddess  of  bathing. 
There  they  bath'd,  of  course,  and  Arthur, 

the  glory  of  headers, 
Leap'd   from   the    ledges   with   Hope,    he 

twenty  feet,  he  thirty  ; 
There,  overbold,  great  Hobbes  from  a  ten- 
foot  height  descended, 
Prone,  as  a  quadruped,  prone  with  hands 

and  feet  protending  ; 
There  in  the  sparkling  champagne,  ecstatic, 

they  shriek'd  and  shouted. 
"  Hobbes's   gutter "   the   Piper   entitles 

the  spot,  profanely, 
Hope    "the    Glory"    would    have,    after 

Arthur,  the  glory  of  headers  : 
But,  for  before  they  departed,  in  shy  and 

fugitive  reflex 

Here  in  the  eddies  and  there  did  the  splen 
dor  of  Jupiter  glimmer  ; 
Adam  adjudged  it  the  name  of  Hesperus, 

star  of  the  evening. 
Hither,  to  Hesperus,  now,  the  star  of  the 

evening  above  them, 
Come   in   their   lonelier   walk   the    pupils 

twain  and  Tutor ; 
Turn'd  from  the  track  of    the  carts,  and 

passing  the  stone  and  shingle, 
Piercing  the  wood,  and  skirting  the  stream 

by  the  natural  causeway, 
Rounded  the  craggy  point,  and  now  at  their 

ease  look'd  up  ;  and 
Lo,   on   the   rocky   ledge,   regardant,   the 

Glory  of  headers, 
Lo,  on  the  beach,  expecting  the  plunge,  not 

cigarless,  the  Piper.  — 
And  they  look'd,  and  wonder'd,  incredu 
lous,  looking  yet  once  more. 
Yes,  it  was  he,  on  the  ledge,  bare-limb'd, 

an  Apollo,  down-gazing, 
Eying  one  moment  the  beauty,  the  life,  ere 

he  flung  himself  in  it, 
Eying  through  eddying  green  waters  the 

green-tinting  floor  underneath  them, 
Eying  the  bead  on  the  surface,  the  bead, 

like  a  cloud,  rising  to  it, 
Drinking  in,  deep  in  his  soul,  the  beautiful 

hue  and  the  clearness, 
Arthur,  the  shapely,  the  brave,  the  unboast- 

ing,  the  glory  of  headers  ; 
Yes,  and  with  fragrant  weed,  by  his  knap 
sack,  spectator  and  critic, 
Seated  on  slab  by  the  margin,  the  Piper, 

the  Cloud-compeller. 


PESCHIERA 

WHAT  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost  ? 
"  'T  is  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

The  tricolor  —  a  trampled  rag  — 
Lies  dirt  and  dust  ;  the  lines  I  track 
By  sentries'  boxes,  yellow,  black, 
Lead  up  to  no  Italian  flag. 

I  see  the  Croat  soldier  stand 
Upon  the  grass  of  your  redoubts  ; 
The  eagle  with  his  black  wing  flouts 
The  breadth  and  beauty  of  your  land. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  although  in  vain, 
O  men  of  Brescia  !  on  the  day 
Of  loss  past  hope,  I  heard  you  say 
Your  welcome  to  the  noble  pain. 

You  said  :  "  Since  so  it  is,  good-bye, 
Sweet  life,  high  hope  ;  but  whatsoe'er 
May  be,  or  must,  no  tongue  shall  dare 
To  tell,  «  The  Lombard  f  ear'd  to  die  ! ' " 

You  s&id  (there  shall  be  answer  fit)  : 
"  And  if  our  children  must  obey, 
They  must ;  but,  thinking  on  this  day, 
'T  will  less  debase  them  to  submit." 

You  said  (O  not  in  vain  you  said)  : 
"Haste,    brothers,    haste,    while    yet    we 

may  ; 

The  hours  ebb  fast  of  this  one  day, 
While  blood  may  yet  be  nobly  shed." 

Ah  !  not  for  idle  hatred,  not 
For  honor,  fame,  nor  self-applause, 
But  for  the  glory  of  the  cause, 
You  did  what  will  not  be  forgot. 

And  though  the  stranger  stand,  't  is  true, 
By  force  and  fortune's  right  he  stands  : 
By  fortune,  which  is  in  God's  hands, 
And  strength,  which  yet   shall   spring  in 
you. 

This  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost  : 
"  'T  is  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 


ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH 


217 


FROM    "AMOURS    DE   VOYAGE" 

JUXTAPOSITION 

JUXTAPOSITION,  in  fine  ;  and  what  is  juxta 
position  ? 

>k  you,  we  travel  along  in  the  railway- 
carriage  or  steamer, 
id,  pour  passer  le  temps,  till  the  tedious 

journey  be  ended, 
aside  paper  or  book,  to  talk  with  the 

girl  that  is  next  one  ; 
1, pour  passer  le  temps,  with  the  terminus 

all  but  in  prospect, 
Talk  of  eternal  ties  and  marriages  made  in 

heaven. 
Ah,  did  we  really  accept  with  a  perfect 

heart  the  illusion  ! 

Lh,  did   we   really  believe  that  the   Pre 
sent  indeed  is  the  Only  ! 
through   all   transmutation,  all   shock 

and  convulsion  of  passion, 
feel  we  could   carry  undimmed,  unextin- 
guished,  the  light  of  our  knowledge  ! 
But  for  his  funeral  train  which  the  bride 
groom  sees  in  the  distance, 

he  so  joyfully,  think  you,  fall  in 
with  the  marriage-procession  ? 
lut  for  that  final  discharge,  would  he  dare 

to  enlist  in  that  service  ? 
it  for  that  certain  release,  ever  sign  to 

that  perilous  contract  ? 
it  for  that  exit  secure,  ever  bend  to  that 

treacherous  doorway  ?  — 
but  the    bride,   meantime,  —  do    you 

think  she  sees  it  as  he  does  ? 
But  for  the  steady  fore-sense  of  a  freer 

and  larger  existence, 
ik  yon  that  man  could  consent  to  be 

circumscribed  here  into  action  ? 
it  for  assurance  within  of  a  limitless  ocean 

divine,  o'er 
lose  great  tranquil  depths  unconscious 

the  wind-toss'd  surface 
ts  into  ripples  of  trouble  that  come 

and  change  and  endure  not,  — 
it  that  in  this,  of  a  truth,  we  have  our 

being,  and  know  it, 
link  you  we  men  could  submit  to  live  and 

move  as  we  do  here  ? 
J,  but  the  women,  —  God  bless  them  !  — 

they  don't  think  at  all  about  it. 
Yet  we  must  eat  and  drink,  as  you  say. 
And  as  limited  beings 


Scarcely  can  hope  to  attain  upon  earth  to 

an  Actual  Abstract, 
Leaving  to  God  contemplation,  to  His  hands 

knowledge  confiding, 
S*'re  that  in  us  if  it  perish,  in  Him  it  abid- 

eth  and  dies  not. 
Let  us  in  His  sight  accomplish  our  petty 

particular  doings,  — 
Yes,  and  contented  sit  down  to  the  victual 

that  He  has  provided. 
Allah  is  great,  no  doubt,  and  Juxtaposition 

his  prophet. 
Ah,  but  the  women,  alas  !  they  don't  lent 

at  it  in  that  way. 
Juxtaposition  is  great ;  —  but,  my  frit-art, 

I  fear  me,  the  maiden 
Hardly  would  thank  or  acknowledge  the 

lover  that  sought  to  obtain  her, 
Not  as  the  thing  he  would  wish,  but  the 

thing  he  must  even  put  up  witbr  — 
Hardly  would  tender  her  hand  to  the  wooer 

that  candidly  told  her 
That  she  is  but  for  a  space,  an  ad-interim 

solace  and  pleasure, — 
That  in  the  end  she  shall  yield  to  a  perfect 

and  absolute  something, 
Which  I  then  for  myself  shall  behold,  and 

not  another,  — 

Which,  amid  fondest  endearments,  mean 
time  I  forget  not,  forsake  not. 
Ah,  ye  feminine  souls,  so  loving  and  so  ex 
acting, 

Since  we  cannot  escape,  must  we  even  sub 
mit  to  deceive  you  ? 
Since,  so  cruel  is  truth,  sincerity  shocks 

and  revolts  you, 
Will  you  have  us  your  slaves  to  lie  to  you, 

flatter  and  —  leave  you  ? 

ITE  DOMUM  SATUR/E,  VENIT 
HESPERUS 

THE  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper 

snow, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

The  rainy  clouds  are  filling  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall  we. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  ! 

Ah  dear  !  and  where  is  he,  a  year  agone, 
Who  stepp'd  beside  and  cheer'd  us  on  and 
on? 


2l8 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


My  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from  me 
In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  ! 

The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the  sky, 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

And  through  the  vale  the  rains  go  sweep 
ing  by  ; 

Ah  me  !  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be  ? 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel 
they 

O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign  seas  that 
stray. 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to  mind 

The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  be 
hind  ? 

And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering 

see 
The  feeding  kine,  and  doth  he  think  of 

me, 
My  sweetheart  wandering  wheresoe'er  it 

be? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  ! 

The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to 
snow, 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  be 
low. 

Heigh-ho  !  but  soon  in  shelter  shall  we  be  : 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  ! 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped 
Some  comelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish  to 

wed? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

For  weary  is  work,  and  weary  day  by  day 
To  have  your  comfort  miles  on  miles  away. 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall  find  my  mate, 
And  he,  returning,  see  himself  too  late  ? 


For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we  see, 
And   God   he  knows,  and  what  must  be, 

must  be, 
When  sweethearts  wander  far  away  from 

me. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  ! 

The  sky  behind  is  brightening  up  anew, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journey  too ; 
Heigh-ho !   aha  !    for    here    at   home    are 

we  :  — 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie  ! 


AH!    YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN 

OLD  things  need  not  be  therefore  true, 
O  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new  ; 
Ah  !  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain, 
And  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
And  all  the  earnings  of  their  pain,  — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

We  !  what  do  we  see  ?  each  a  space 
Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face  ; 
Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain  ? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

Alas  !  the  great  world  goes  its  way, 
And  takes  its  truth  from  each  new  day  ; 
They  do  not  quit,  nor  can  retain, 
Far  less  consider  it  again. 


WHERE  LIES  THE   LAND 

WHERE  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship 

would  go  ? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the   land   she   travels   from? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth 

face, 
Link'd  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to 

pace  ! 

Or  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 


CLOUGH  —  SHAIRP  —  SMEDLEY 


219 


On  stormy  nights,  when  wild  northwesters 

rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and 

wave  ! 

The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would 

go? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where   the  land  she   travels  from? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  u  all  that  they  can  say. 


3[ol)it  Campbell 


CAILLEACH   BEIN-Y-VREICH  i 

WEIRD  wife  of  Bein-y-Vreich  !  horo  !  horo  ! 

Aloft  in  the  mist  she  dwells  ; 
Vreich  horo  !  Vreich  horo  !  Vreich  horo  ! 

All  alone  by  the  lofty  wells. 

Weird,  weird  wife  !    with  the  long  gray 
locks, 

She  follows  her  fleet-foot  stags, 
Noisily  moving  through  splinter'd  rocks, 

And  crashing  the  grisly  crags. 

Tall   wife,  with   the   long   gray  hose  I   in 
haste 

The  rough  stony  beach  she  walks  ; 
But  dulse  or  seaweed  she  will  not  taste, 

Nor  yet  the  green  kail  stalks. 

And  I  will  not  let  my  herds  of  deer, 

My  bonny  red  deer  go  down  ; 
I  will  not  let  them  down  to  the  shore, 

To  feed  on  the  sea-shells  brown. 

Oh,  better  they  love  in  the  corrie's  recess, 

Or  on  mountain 'top  to  dwell, 
And  feed  by  my  side  on  the  green,  green 
cress, 

That  grows  by  the  lofty  well. 


Broad  Bein-y-Vreich  is  grisly  and  drear, 
But  wherever  my  feet  have  been 

The  well-springs  start  for  my  darling  deer, 
And  the  grass  grows  tender  and  green. 

And  there  high  up  on  the  calm  nights  clear, 

Beside  the  lofty  spring, 
They  come  to  my  call,  and  I  milk  them 
there, 

And  a  weird  wild  song  I  sing. 

But  when  hunter  men  round  my  dun  deer 
prowl, 

I  will  not  let  them  nigh  ; 
Through  the  rended  cloud  I  cast  one  scowl, 

They  faint  on  the  heath  and  die. 

And  when  the  north  wind  o'er  the  desert 

bare 

Drives  loud,  to  the  corries  below 
I  drive  my  herds  down,  and   bield   them 

there 
From  the  drifts  of  the  blinding  snow. 

Then  I  mount  the  blast,  and  we  ride  full 
fast, 

And  laugh  as  we  stride  the  storm, 
I,  and  the  witch  of  the  Cruachan  Ben, 

And  the  scowling-eyed  Seul-Gorm. 


THE  LITTLE  FAIR  SOUL 


A  LITTLE  fair  soul  that  knew  no  sin 

Look'd  over  the  edge  of  Paradise, 
And  saw  one  striving  to  come  in, 

With  fear  and  tumult  iu  his  eyes. 

i  A  beanshith  or  fairy  seen  by  hunter*. 


«  Oh,  brother,  is  it  you  ? ''  he  cried  ; 

"Your    face    is    like    a    breath 

home  ; 
Why  do  you  stay  so  long  outside  ? 

I  am  athirst  for  you  to  come  I 


ft,  .1:1 


22O 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


"  Tell  me  first  how  our  mother  fares, 
And  has  she  wept  too  much  for  me  ?  " 

"  White  are  her  cheeks  and  white  her  hairs, 
But  not  from  gentle  tears  for  thee." 

"  Tell  me,  where  are  our  sisters  gone  ?  " 
"Alas,  I  left  them  weary  and  wan." 

'« And  tell  me  is  the  baby  grown  ?  " 
"Alas  !  he  is  almost  a  man. 

"  Cannot  you  break  the  gathering  days, 
And  let  the  light  of  death  come  through, 

Ere  his  feet  stumble  in  the  maze 
Cross'd  safely  by  so  few,  so  few  ? 

"  For  like  a  crowd  upon  the  sea 
That  darkens  till  you  find  no  shore, 

So  was  that  face  of  life  to  me, 
Until  I  sank  for  evermore  ; 

"  And  like  an  army  in  the  snow 

My  days  went  by,  a  treacherous  train, 

Each  smiling  as  he  struck  his  blow, 
Until  I  lay  among  them  slain." 

"  Oh,  brother,  there  was  a  path  so  clear  ! " 
"  There  might  be,  but  I  never  sought." 

"  Oh,  brother,  there  was  a  sword  so  near  !  " 
"There  might  be,  but  I  never  fought." 

u  Yet  sweep  this  needless  gloom  aside, 
For  you  are  come  to  the  gate  at  last !  " 


Then  in  despair  that  soul  replied, 
"  The  gate  is  fast,  the  gate  is  fast'  1 " 

"  I  cannot  move  this  mighty  weight, 
I  cannot  find  this  golden  key  ; 

But  hosts  of  heaven  around  us  wait, 
And  none  has  ever  said  '  No '  to  me. 


"  Sweet  Saint,  put  by  thy  palm  and  scroll, 
And  come  and  undo  the  door  for  me  ! " 

"  Rest  thee  still,  thou  little  fair  soul, 
It  is  not  mine  to  keep  the  key." 

"  Kind  Angel,  strike  these  doors  apart ! 

The  air  without  is  dark  and  cold." 
"  Rest  thee  still,  thou  little  pure  heart, 

Not  for  my  word  will  they  unfold." 

Up  all  the  shining  heights  he  pray'd 
For  that  poor  Shadow  in  the  cold  ! 

Still  came  the  word,  "  Not  ours  to  aid  ; 
We  cannot  make  the  doors  unfold." 

But  that  poor  Shadow,  still  outside, 
Wrung  all  the  sacred  air  with  pain  ; 

And  all  the  souls  went  up  and  cried 
Where  never  cry  was  heard  in  vain. 

No  eye  beheld  the  pitying  Face, 
The  answer  none  might  understand, 

But  dimly  through  the  silent  space 
Was  seen  the  stretching  of  a  Hand. 


THE  DRIED-UP  FOUNTAIN 

OUTSIDE  the  village,  by  the  public  road, 
I  know  a  dried-up  fountain,  overgrown 
With  herbs,  the  haunt  of  legendary  toad, 
And  grass,  by  Nature  sown. 

I  know  not  where  its  trickling  life  was  still'd; 
No  living  ears  its  babbling  tongue  has 

caught  ; 

But  often,  as  I  pass,  I  see  it  fill'd 
And  running  o'er  with  thought. 

I  see  it  as  it  was  in  days  of  old, 

The   blue-ey'd  maiden  stooping  o'er  its 

brim, 

And  smoothing  in  its  glass  her  locks  of  gold, 
Lest  she  should  meet  with  him. 


3tei0l)ton 

She  knows  that  he  is  near,  yet  I  can  see 
Her  sweet  confusion  when  she  hears  him 

come. 

No  tryst  had  they,  though  every  evening  he 
Carries  her  pitchers  home. 

The  ancient  beggar  limps  along  the  road 
At  thirsty  noon,  and   rests   him   by  its 

brink  ; 

The  dusty  pedlar  lays  aside  his  load, 
And  pauses  there  to  drink. 

And   there   the    village   children  come  to 

play, 
When   busy   parents   work  in  shop  and 

field. 

The  swallows,  too,  find  there  the  loamy  clay 
When  'neath  the  eaves  they  build. 


LEIGHTON  —  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


221 


When  cows  at  eve  come   crooning   home, 

the  boy 
Leaves  them  to  drink,  while  his  mechanic 

skill 

Within  the  brook  sets  up,  with  inward  joy, 
His  tiny  water-mill. 

And  when  the  night  is  hush'd  in  summer 

sleep, 
And  rest  has  come  to  laborer  and  team, 


I  hear  the  runnel  through  the  long  grass 

creep, 
As  't  were  a  whispering  dream. 

Alas  !  't  is  all  a  dream.     Lover  and  lass, 
Children  and    wanderers,  are  in  their 

graves  ; 
And  where  the  fountain  flow'd  a  greener 

grass  — 
Its  In  Memoriam  —  waves. 


fl^attljcto 


unty 
As   though    one    spake    of   life    unto   the 


WRITTEN  IN    EMERSON'S 
ESSAYS 

"O  MONSTROUS,  dead,  unprofitable  world, 
That  thou  canst  hear,  and  hearing,  hold  thy 

way  ! 

A  voice  oracular  .hath  peal'd  to-day, 
To-day  a  hero's  banner  is  unfurl'd  ; 
Hast  thou  no  lip  for  welcome  ?  "  —  So  I 

said. 
Man   after   man,    the    world    smil'd    and 

pass'd  by ; 
A  smile  of  wistful  incredulit 

ough    01 

dead  — 
Scornful,  and  strange,  and  sorrowful,  and 

full 
Of    bitter    knowledge.     Yet    the    will    is 

free  ; 

Strong  is  the  soul,  and  wise,  and  beauti 
ful ; 

The  seeds  of  god-like  power  are  in  us  still ; 
Gods  are   we,  bards,  saints,  heroes,  if  we 

will  !  — 
Dumb  judges,  answer,  truth  or  mockery  ? 

[THE  WORLD  AND  THE  QUIETIST 

"  WHY,  when  the  world's  great  mind 
Hath  finally  inclin'd, 
Why,"  you  say,  Critias,  "be  debating  still  ? 
Why,  with  these  mournful  rhymes 
Learn'd  in  more  languid  climes, 
Blame  our  activity 
Who,  with  such  passionate  will, 
Are  what  we  mean  to  be  ?  " 

Critias,  long  since,  I  know 
(For  Fate  decreed  it  so), 


Long  since  the  world  hath  set  its  heart  to 

live  ; 

Long  since,  with  credulous  zeal 
It  turns  life's  mighty  wheel, 
Still  doth  for  laborers  send 
Who  still  their  labor  give, 
And  still  expects  an  end. 

Yet,  as  the  wheel  flies  round, 
With  no  ungrateful  sound 
Do  adverse  voices  fall  on  the  world's  ear. 
Deafen'd  by  his  own  stir 
The  nigged  laborer 
Caught  not  till  then  a  sense 
So  glowing  and  so  near 
Of  his  omnipotence. 

So,  when  the  feast  grew  loud 
In  Susa's  palace  proud, 
A  white-rob'd    slave   stole  to    the   Great 

King's  side. 

He  spake  —  the  Great  King  heard  ; 
Felt  the  slow-rolling  word 
Swell  his  attentive  soul ; 
Breath'd  deeply  as  it  died, 
And  drain'd  his  mighty  bowl. 


FROM  "SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM" 

THE  COMBAT 

HE  ceas'd,  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum 

had  risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage  ;  his 

club 

He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regnin'd  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mail'd  right- 
hand 


822 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Blaz'd  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn- 
star, 

The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  ;  dust  had  soil'd 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimm'd  his  glitter 
ing  arms. 
His  breast   heav'd,  his    lips    foam'd,   and 

twice  his  voice 
Was  chok'd  with  rage  ;  at  last  these  words 

broke  way  :  — 
"  Girl !  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with 

thy  hands  ! 
Curl'd   minion,    dancer,    coiner    of    sweet 

words ! 
Fight,   let   me   hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 

more  ! 

Thou  art  not  in  Af rasiab's  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with    whom  thou  art 

wont  to  dance  ; 

But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war  ;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and 

wine  ! 

Remember  all  thy  valor  ;  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning  !  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone  ; 
Because  thou  hast  shani'd  me  before  both 

the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,   and    thy 

girl's  wiles." 
He   spoke,  and  Sohrab    kindled  at   his 

taunts, 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword  ;  at  once  they 

rush'd 

Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come    rushing    down    together    from  the 

clouds, 
One   from  the  east,   one  from  the   west  ; 

their  shields 

Dash'd  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees  —  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hail'd. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took 

part 

In  that  unnatural  conflict  ;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  dark'd  the 

sun 

Over  the  fighters'  heads  ;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the 

plain, 
And  in  a    sandy    whirlwind  wrapp'd    the 

pair. 
In   gloom  they  twain  were  wrapp'd,  and 

they  alone  ; 


For  both  the  on-looking    hosts  on  either 

hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was 

pure, 

And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  blood 
shot  eyes 
And  laboring  breath  ;  first  Rustum  struck 

the  shield 
Which   Sohrab   held   stiff  out ;  the  steel- 

spik'd  spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  fail'd  to  reach 

the  skin, 
And  Rustum  pluck'd  it  back  with  angry 

groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rus- 

tum's  helm, 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through  ;  but  all 

the  crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair 

plume, 

Never  till  now  defil'd,  sank  to  the  dust ; 
And  Rustum    bow'd  his  head  ;  but    then 

the  gloom 

Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud  ;  and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
Who   stood    at  hand,    utter'd   a  dreadful 

cry;  — 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pain'd  desert-lion,  who  all  day 
Has  trail'd  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 
And     comes   at    night  to    die   upon    the 

sand  — 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quak'd 

for  fear, 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  cross'd  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab   heard,    and    quail'd   not,  but 

rush'd  on, 
And    struck    again  ;     and   again  Rustum 

bow'd 
His  head  ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like 


Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 

And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remain'd  alone. 

Then  Rustum  rais'd  his  head  ;  his  dread 
ful  eyes 

Glar'd,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing 
spear, 

And  shouted  :  Rustum  I  —  Sohrab  heard 
that  shout, 

And  shrank  amaz'd  :  back  he  recoil'd  one 
step, 

And  scann'd  with  blinking  eyes  the  ad« 
vancing  form  ; 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


And    then   he   stood   bewilder'd,    and   lie 

dropp'd 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced 

his  side. 

t|  He  reel'd,  and  staggering  back,   sank  to 
the  ground  ; 
And    then  the   gloom  dispers'd,    and  the 

wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted 

all 
The  cloud  ;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the 

pair  ;  — 

Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 

OXUS 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  mov'd, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmian 

waste, 

Under  the  solitary  moon  ;  —  he  flow'd 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large  ;  then 

sands  begin 
To  hem  his  watery    march,  and  dam  his 

streams, 
And  split  his  currents  ;  that  for  many  a 

league 

The  shorn  and  parcelFd  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and   matted  rushy 

isles  — 

Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foil'd  circuitous  wanderer  —  till  at  last 
The  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 

wide 

[is  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 

bath'd  stars 
;rge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

FROM   "BALDER   DEAD" 

THE    INCREMATION 

BUT  now  the  sun  had  pass'd  the  height  of 

Heaven, 
And  soon  had  all  that  day  been  spent  in 

wail ; 

But  then  the  Father  of  the  ages  said  :  — 
"  Ye  Gods,  there  well  may  be  too  much 

of  wail ! 
Bring  now  the  gather'd  wood  to  Balder's 

ship  ; 


Heap  on  the  deck  the  logs,  and  build  the 

pyre." 
But  when  the  Gods  and  Heroes  heard, 

they  brought 

The  wood  to  Balder's  ship,  and  built  a  pile, 
Full  the  deck's  breadth,  and  lofty;  then 

the  corpse 

Of  Balder  on  the  highest  top  they  laid, 
With  Nanna  on  his  right,  and  on  his  left 
Hoder,  his  brother,   whom  his  own  hand 

slew. 

And  they  set  jars  of  wine  and  oil  to  lean 
Against  the  bodies,  and  stuck  torches  near, 
Splinters  of  pine-wood,  soak'd  with  turpen 
tine  ; 
And  brought  his  arms  and  gold,  and  all  his 

stuff, 

And  slew  the  dogs  who  at  his  table  fed, 
And  his  horse,  Balder's  horse,  whom  roost 

he  lov'd, 
And   threw  them  on  the  pyre,  and  Odin 

threw 

A  last  choice  gift  thereon,  his  golden  ring. 
The  mast  they  fix'd,  and  hoisted  up  the 

sails, 

Then  they  put  fire  to  the  wood  ;  and  Thor 
Set  his  stout  shoulder    hard  against    the 

stern 
To     push    the    ship    through    the    thick 

sand  ;  —  sparks  flew 
From  the  deep    trench  she    plough'd,   so 

strong  a  God 

Furrow'd  it ;  and  the  water  gurgled  in. 
And  the  ship  floated  on    the  waves,  and 

rock'd. 

But  in  the  hills  a  strong  east-wind  arose, 
And  came  down  moaning  to  the  sea  ;  first 

squalls 
Ran  black  o'er  the  sea's  face,  then  steady 

rush'd 
The  breeze,  and  fill'd  the  sails,  and  blew 

the  fire  ; 
And  wreath'd  in  smoke  the  ship  stood  out 

to  sea. 

Soon  with  a  roaring  rose  the  mighty  fire. 
And  the  pile  crackled  ;  and  between  the 

logs 
Sharp  quivering  tongues  of  flame  shot  out, 

and  leap'd, 
Curling  and  darting,  higher,    until    they 

lick'd 
The   summit   of  the   pile,    the  dead,  the 

mast, 
And  ate  the  shrivelling  sails  ;  but  still  the 

ship 


224 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Drove  on,  ablaze  above  her  hull  with  fire. 
And  the  Gods  stood  upon  the  beach,  and 


And  while  they  gaz'd,  the  sun  went  lurid 

down 
Into   the  smoke-wrapp'd   seas,  and   night 

came  on. 
Then  the  wind  fell,  with  night,  and  there 

was  calm  ; 

But   through  the  dark  they   watch'd  the 
*  burning  ship 

Still  carried  o'er  the  distant  waters  on, 
Farther  and  farther,  like  an  eye  of  fire. 
And  long,  in  the  far  dark,  blaz'd  Balder's 

pile  ; 
But  fainter,  as    the   stars   rose   high,    it 

flar'd  ; 
The  bodies  were  cousum'd,  ash  chok'd  the 

pile. 

And  as,  in  a  decaying  winter-fire, 
A  charr'd  log,  falling,  makes  a  shower  of 

sparks  — 

So  with  a  shower  of  sparks  the  pile  fell  in, 
Reddening  the  sea  around  ;  and   all   was 

dark. 
But  the  Gods  went  by  starlight  up  the 

shore 

To  Asgard,  and  sate  down  in  Odin's  hall 
At  table,  and  the  funeral-feast  began. 
All   night    they  ate  the  boar    Serimner's 

flesh, 
And  from  their  horns,  with  silver  rimm'd, 

drank  mead, 
Silent,  and  waited  for  the  sacred  morn. 

THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

COME,  dear  children,  let  us  away  ; 
Down  and  away  below  I 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow  ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go  — 
Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know  : 
"  Margaret  !    Margaret !  " 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear  ; 
Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain  — 
Surely  she  will  come  again  ! 


Call  her  once  and  come  away  ; 

This  way,  this  way  ! 

"  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  ! 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down  ; 
Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town, 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 

shore  ; 

Then  come  down  ! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day  ; 
Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep  ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round, 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground  ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine  ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye  ? 
When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 

She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended 

it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off 

bell. 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear 

green  sea  ; 
She   said  :  "  I   must   go,   for  my  kinsfolk 

pray 

In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to 
day. 
'Twill  be   Easter-time  in  the  world  —  ah 

me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman  !   here 

with  thee." 
I  said  :  "  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the 

waves  ; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


iy  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind 

sea-caves  J " 
She  smil'd,  she  went  up  through  the  surf 
in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 
Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 
"The   sea  grows   stormy,   the  little   ones 
^^      moan ; 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "  in  the  world  they 

say  ; 
Come  ! "  I  said  ;  and  we  rose  through  the 

surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white- 

wall'd  town  ; 
igh  the  narrow  pav'd  streets,  where 

all  was  still, 
L'o   the   little  gray  church   on   the   windy 

hill. 
>m  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk 

at  their  prayers, 
tut  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing 

airs. 
re  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the   stones 

worn  with  rains, 
Lnd  we  gaz'd  up  the  aisle  through   the 

small  leaded  panes, 
sate  by  the  pillar  ;  we  saw  her  clear  : 
Margaret,  hist  !  come  quick,  we  are  here  ! 

heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone  ; 
sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 
Jut,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
''or  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book  ! 
id  prays  the  priest :  shut  stands  the  door, 
/ome  away,  children,  call  no  more! 
Dome  away,  come  down,  call  no  more  ! 

Down,  down,  down ! 
Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  ! 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town. 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings  :  "  O  joy,  O  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with 
its  toy  ! 

or  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy 
well; 

or  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 

nd  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun  ! " 

nd  so  she  sings  her  fill, 

inging  most  joyfully, 

'ill  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the 
sand, 


And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea  ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  iii  a  stare  ; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-ladeii, 

A  long,  lone  sigh; 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Met* 

maiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children ; 
Come,  children,  come  down  ! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder  ; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door  ; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing  :  "  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she  i 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 
When  soft  the  winds  blow, 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 
When  spring-tides  are  low  ; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom, 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanch'd  sands  a  gloom  ; 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie. 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 
We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white,  sleeping  town  ; 
At  the  church  on  the  hill-side  — 
And  then  come  back  down. 
Singing  :  «•  There  dwells  a  lov'd  one, 
But  cruel  is  she  1 
She  left  lonely  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea," 

PHILOMELA 

HARK  !  ah,  the  nightingale  — 
The  tawny-throated ! 

Hark,  from    that  moonlit   cedar    what  a 
burst  I 


226 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


What  triumph  !  hark  !  — what  pain  ! 
O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lauds, 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 
That  wild,  uuquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old- 
world  pain  — 
Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English 

grass, 
The   unfriendly   palace    in    the    Thracian 

wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's 

shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make 

resound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? 
Listen,  Eugenia  — 
How     thick    the    bursts    come    crowding 

through  the  leaves  ! 
Again  —  thou  nearest  ? 
Eternal  passion  ! 
Eternal  pain  ! 

DOVER  BEACH 

THE  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits  ;  —  on  the  French  coast  the 
light 

Gleams  and  is  gone  ;  the  cliffs  of  England 
stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil 
bay. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night- 
air  ! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd 
sand, 

Listen  !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and 
fling, 


At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  ^Egaean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery  ;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's 

shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-winds,  down  the  vast  edges 

drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To    one    another !   for    the    world,   which 

seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain  ; 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  conf  us'd  alarms  of  struggle  and 

flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


FROM 


EMPEDOCLES 
ETNA" 


ON 


AND  you,  ye  stars, 

Who  slowly  begin  to  marshal, 

As  of  old,  in  the  fields  of  heaven, 

Your  distant,  melancholy  lines  ! 

Have  you,  too,  survived  yourselves  ? 

Are  you,  too,  what  I  fear  to  become  ? 

You,  too,  once  liv'd  ; 

You  too  mov'd  joyfully, 

Among  august  companions, 

In  an  older  world,  peopled  by  Gods, 

In  a  mightier  order, 

The  radiant,  rejoicing,  intelligent  Sons  oi 

Heaven. 

But  now,  ye  kindle 
Your  lonely,  cold-shining  lights, 
Unwilling  lingerers 
In  the  heavenly  wilderness, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


227 


tor  a  younger,  ignoble  world  ; 
md  renew,  by  necessity, 
light  after  night  your  courses, 
n  echoing,  uuuear'd  silence, 
Above  a  race  you  know  not  — 
Uncaring  and  undelighted, 
Without  friend  and  without  borne  ; 
eary  like  us,  though  not 
reary  with  our  weariness. 

Jo,  no,  ye  stars  !  there  is   no  death  with 

you, 

languor,  no  decay  !  languor  and  death, 
jy  are  with  me,  not  you  !  ye  are  alive  — 
and  the  pure  dark  ether  where  ye  ride 
Jrilliant  above  me  !  And  thou,  fiery  world, 
?hat  sapp'st  the  vitals  of  this  terrible 
mount 

whose  charr'd  and  quaking   crust  I 
stand  — 
>u,  too,  briinmest  with  life  !  —  the  sea  of 

cloud, 

heaves  its  white  and  billowy  vapors  up 
moat  this  isle  of  ashes  from  the  world, 
ives  ;  and  that  other  fainter  sea,  far  down, 
'er  whose  lit  floor  a  road  of  moonbeams 

leads 

Etna's  Liparean  sister-fires 
~  the  long  dusky  line  of  Italy  — 

mild  and   luminous   floor  of    waters 
lives, 

held-in  joy  swelling  its  heart ;  I  only,' 
rhose  spring  of  hope  is  dried,  whose  spirit 

has  fail'd, 
who  have  not,  like  these,  in  solitude 
[aintain'd  courage  and  force,  and  in  myself 
lurs'd  an  immortal  vigor  —  I  alone 
im  dead  to  life  and  joy,  therefore  I  read 
all  things  my  own  deadness. 

THE   BURIED   LIFE 

JHT  flows  our  war  of   mocking   words, 

and  yet, 

.-held,  with  tears  mine  eyes  are  wet ! 
feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll, 
fes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest, 
"     know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile  ! 
it  there 's  a  something  in  this  breast, 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest, 
nd  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne  ; 
rive  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile, 
ind  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine, 
k.nd  let  me  read  there,  love  !  thy  inmost 
soul. 


Alas  !  is  even  love  too  weak 
To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak  ? 
Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 
To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel  ? 
I  knew  the  mass  of  men  cottceaTd 
Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  reveal'd 
They  would  by  other  men  be  met 
With    blank    indifference,  or  with 


reprov'd  ; 
I  knew  they  liv'd  and  raov'd 
Trick'd  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 
Of  men,  and  alien  to  themselves  —  and  yet 
The   same    heart   beats    in   every    human 

breast ! 

But  we,  my  love  !  —  doth  a  like  spell  be 
numb 

Our  hearts,  our  voices  ?  —  must  we  too  be 
dumb? 

Ah  !  well  for  us,  if  even  we, 
Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 
Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchain'd  ; 
For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep- 
ordain'd  ! 

Fate,  which  foresaw 
How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be  — 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possess'd, 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity  — 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey 
Even  in  his  own  despite  his  being's  law, 
Bade  through   the    deep   recesses  of  our 

breast 

The  unregarded  river  of  our  life 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way ; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 
Eddying  at  large  in  blind  uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the    world's   most   crowded 

streets, 

But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life  ; 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 
In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course  ; 
A  longing  to  inquire 

Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  which  beats 
So  wild,  so  deep  in  us  —  to  know 
Whence  our  lives  come  and  where  thej 


228 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then 

delves, 

But  deep  enough,  alas  !  none  ever  mines. 
And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 
And  we  have  shown,  on    each,  spirit  and 

power  ; 

But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour, 
Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  our 
selves  — 

Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 
The  nameless  feelings  that  course  through 

our  breast, 

But  they  course  on  for  ever  unexpress'd. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 
Is  eloquent,  is  well  — but  't  is  not  true  ! 
And  then  we  will  no  more  be  rack'd 
With  inward  striving,  and  demand 
Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 
Their  stupefying  power  ; 
Ah  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call ! 
Yet  still,  from  time  to   time,    vague   and 

forlorn, 

From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne 
As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 
Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only  —  but  this  is  rare  — 

When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 

When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 

Of  the  interminable  hours, 

Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 

When  our  world-deafen'd  ear 

Is  by  the  tones  of  a  lov'd  voice  caress'd  — 

A   bolt   is   shot   back   somewhere    in    our 

breast, 

And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again. 
The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies 

plain, 
And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we 

would,  we  know. 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the 

breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  for  ever  chase 
The  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 
And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  hills  where  his  life  rose,  • 

And  the  sea  where  it  goes. 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 

APRIL,  1850 

GOETHE  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remain'd  to  come  ; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb  — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb, 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bow'd  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little  ;  but  our  soul 
Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law  ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
W^e  watch 'd  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  serv'd  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said  : 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear : 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said  :  Thou  attest  here,  and  here  ! 

He  look'd  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power  ; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  — 

He  said  :  The  end  is  everywhere, 

Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there  I 

And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  !  —  Ah,  pale  ghosts,  re 
joice  ! 

For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  convey'd, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  —  and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we  ! 
He  too  upon  a  wintery  clime 
Had  fallen — on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round  ; 
He  spoke,  and  loos'd  our  hearts  in  tears. 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


229 


He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us,  and  we  had  ease  ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again  ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  return'd  ;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furl'd, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force  ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power  ? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 
But  who,  ah  !  who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by  ? 
Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave  ! 
Sing  him  thy  best  !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

GEIST'S   GRAVE 

FOUR  years  !  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist !  into  no  more  ? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  !  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  urging  the  Virgilian  cry, l 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things  — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consol'd 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould  — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day  ? 


Yes,  only  four  !  —  and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  let ! 

Which   man,   proud    man,   finds    hard   to 

bear, 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 
Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw, 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart  — 
Would  fix  our  favorite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  beeu. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now  ; 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse  : 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou  I 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  rais'd  to  ask  which  way  we  go  ; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow  ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home  J 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropp'd  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that  —  thou  dost  not  care  ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name, 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stcne. 


»  Buiit  lacriuuc  return  ! 


23° 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form, 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road  ;  — 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode  ! 


Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say  : 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachs-hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 


POPE  AT  TWICKENHAM 

BEYOND  a  hundred  years  and  more, 
A  garden  lattice  like  a  door 

Stands  open  in  the  sun, 
Admitting  fitful  winds  that  set 
Astir  the  fragrant  mignonette 

In  waves  of  speckled  dun  : 

Sweet  waves,  above  whose  odorous  flow 
Red  roses  bud,  red  roses  blow, 

In  beds  that  gem  the  lawn  — 
Enamell'd  rings  and  stars  of  flowers, 
By  summer  beams  and  vernal  showers 

From  earth  nutritious  drawn. 

Within  the  broad  bay-window,  there, 
Lo  !  huddled  in  his  easy-chair, 

One  hand  upon  his  knee, 
A  hand  so  thin,  so  wan,  so  frail, 
It  tells  of  pains  and  griefs  a  tale, 

A  small  bent  form  I  see. 

The  day  is  fair,  the  hour  is  noon, 

From  neighboring  thicket  thrills  the  boon 

The  nuthatch  yields  in  song  : 
All  drench'd  with  recent  rains,  the  leaves 
Are  dripping  —  drip  the  sheltering  eaves, 

The  dropping  notes  among. 

And  twinkling  diamonds  in  the  grass 
Show  where  the  flitting  zephyrs  pass, 

That  shake  the  green  blades  dry  ; 
And  golden  radiance  fills  the  air 
And  gilds  the  floating  gossamer 

That  glints  and  trembles  by. 

Yet,  blind  to  each  familiar  grace, 
Strange  anguish  on  his  pallid  face, 
And  eyes  of  dreamful  hue, 


Stent 

That  lonely  man  sits  brooding  there, 
Still  huddled  in  his  easy-chair, 
With  memories  life  will  rue. 

Where   bay   might   crown  that  honor'd 

head, 
A  homely  crumpled  nightcap  spread 

Half  veils  the  careworn  brows  ; 
In  morning-gown  of  rare  brocade 
His  puny  shrunken  shape  array'd 

His  sorrowing  soul  avows  : 

Avows  in  every  dropping  line 
Dejection  words  not  thus  define 

So  eloquent  of  woe  ; 
Yet  never  to  those  mournful  eyes, 
The  heart's  full-brimming  fountains,  rise 

Sweet  tears  to  overflow. 

No  token  here  of  studied  grief, 
But  plainest  signs  that  win  belief, 

A  simple  scene  and  true. 
Beside  the  mourner's  chair  display'd, 
The  matin  meal's  slight  comforts  laid 

Trimly  the  board  bestrew. 

'Mid  silvery  sheen  of  burnish'd  plate, 
The  chill'd  and  tarnish'd  chocolate 

On  snow-white  damask  stands  ; 
Untouch'd  the  trivial  lures  remain 
In  dainty  pink-tinged  porcelain, 

Still  ranged  by  usual  hands. 

A  drowsy  bee  above  the  cream 
Hums  loitering  in  the  sunny  gleam 

That  tips  each  rim  with  gold ; 
A  checker'd  maze  of  light  and  gloom 
Floats  in  the  quaintly-litter'd  room 

With  varying  charms  untold. 


KENT  —  ROSCOE—  CORY 


Why  sits  that  silent  watcher  there, 
Still  brooding  with  that  face  of  care, 

That  gaze  of  tearless  pain  ? 
What  bonds  of  woe  his  spirit  bind, 
What  treasure  lost  can  leave  In-hind 

Such  stings  within  his  brain  ? 

He  dreams  of  one  who  lies  above, 
He  never  more  in  life  can  love  — 
That  mother  newly  dead  ; 


He  waits  the  artist-friend  whose  skill 
Shall  catch  the  angel-beauty  still 
Upon  her  features  spread. 

A  reverent  sorrow  fills  the  air, 

And  makes  a  throne  of  grief  the  chair 

Where  filial  genius  mourns  : 
Death  proving  still,  at  direst  need, 
Life's  sceptre-wand  —  a  broken  reed, 

Love's  wreath  —  a  crown  of  thorns. 


JDiHiam  tfatotodl  ftotfcoc 


TO   LA   SANSCCEUR 

I  KNOW  not  how  to  call  you  light, 

Since  I  myself  was  lighter  ; 
Nor  can  you  blame  my  changing  plight 

Who  were  the  first  inviter. 

I  know  not  which  began  to  range 
Since  we  were  never  constant ; 

And  each  when  each  began  to  change 
Was  found  a  weak  remonstrant. 

But  this  I  know,  the  God  of  Love 
Doth  shake  his  hand  against  us, 

And  scorning  says  we  ne'er  did  prove 
True  passion  —  but  pretences. 

THE   MASTER-CHORD 

LIKE  a  musician  that  with  flying  finger 
Startles  the  voice  of  some  new  instrument, 
And,  though  he  know  that  in  one  string  are 

blent 

All  its  extremes  of  sound,  yet  still  doth  lin 
ger 

Among  the  lighter  threads,  fearing  to  start 
The  deep  soul  of  that  one  melodious  wire, 
Lest  it,  uuanswering,  dash  his  high  desire, 


And  spoil  the  hopes  of  his  expectant  heart  ; 
Thus,  with  my  mistress  oft  conversing,  I 
Stir  every  lighter  theme  with  careless  voice, 
Gathering  sweet  music  and  celestial  joys 
From  the  harmonious  soul  o'er  which  I  fly  ; 
Yet  o'er  the  one  deep  master-chord  I  hover, 
And  dare  not  stoop,  fearing  to  tell  —  I  love 
her. 

EARTH 

SAD  is  my  lot ;  among  the  shining  spheres 
Wheeling,  I  weave  incessant  day  and  night, 
And  ever,  in  my  never-ending  flight, 
Add  woes  to  woes,  and  count  up  tears  on 

tears. 
Young  wives'  and  new-born  infants'  hapless 

biers 

Lie  on  my  breast,  a  melancholy  sight ; 
Fresh  griefs  abhor  my  fresh  returning  light  ; 
Pain  and  remorse  and  want  fill  up  my  yean. 
My  happier  children's  farther-piercing  eye* 
Into  the  blessed  solvent  future  climb, 
And  knit  the  threads  of  joy  and  hope  and 

warning  ; 

But  I,  the  ancient  mother,  am  not  wise, 
And,  shut  within  the  blind  obscure  of  time, 
Roll  on  from  morn  to  night,  and  on  from 

night  to  morning. 


MIMNERMUS    IN   CHURCH 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will ; 

But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life, 
So    sweet,   I    fain   would    breathe    it 
still  ; 


Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego, 
This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I 


know. 


You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above  : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  lore. 


232 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Show  me  what  angels  feel.     Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  quires, 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains  : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remember' d  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away  ; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 

HERACLEITUS1 

THEY  told  me,  Heracleitus,  they  told  me 

you  were  dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and 

bitter  tears  to  shed. 
I  wept,  as   I  remember'd   how  often  you 

and  I 
Had  tir'd  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him 

down  the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old 

Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  gray  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at 

rest, 


Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightin 
gales,  awake  ; 

For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them 
he  cannot  take. 

A     POOR     FRENCH     SAILOR'S 
SCOTTISH    SWEETHEART 

I  CANNOT  forget  my  Joe, 

I  bid  him  be  mine  in  sleep  ; 
But  battle  and  woe  have  changed  him  so 

There  's  nothing  to  do  but  weep. 

My  mother  rebukes  me  yet, 
And  I  never  was  meek  before  ; 

His  jacket  is  wet,  his  lip  cold  set, 
He  '11  trouble  our  home  no  more. 

Oh,  breaker  of  reeds  that  bend  ! 

Oh,  quencher  of  tow  that  smokes  ! 
I  'd  rather  descend  to  my  sailor  friend 

Than  prosper  with  lofty  folks. 

I  'm  lying  beside  the  gowan, 
My  Joe  in  the  English  bay  ; 

I  'm  Annie  Rowan,  his  Annie  Rowan, 
He  called  me  his  Bien-Aime'e. 

I  '11  hearken  to  all  you  quote, 

Though  I  'd  rather  be  deaf  and  free  ; 

The  little  he  wrote  in  the  sinking  boat 
Is  Bible  and  charm  for  me. 


2turt)or  Onfounti 


EPITAPH  OF  DIONYSIA 

HERE  doth  Dionysia  lie  : 
She  whose  little  wanton  foot, 
Tripping  (ah,  too  carelessly  !  ), 
Touch'd  this  tomb,  and  fell  into 't. 

Trip  no  more  shall  she,  nor  fall. 
And  her  trippings  were  so  few  ! 
Summers  only  eight  in  all 
Had  the  sweet  child  wander'd  through. 

But,  already,  life's  few  suns 
Love's  strong  seeds  had  ripen'd  warm. 
All  her  ways  were  winning  ones  ; 
All  her  cunning  was  to  charm. 


And  the  fancy,  in  the  flower, 
While  the  flesh  was  in  the  bud, 
Childhood's  dawning  sex  did  dower 
With  warm  gusts  of  womanhood. 

Oh  what  joys  by  hope  begun, 
Oh  what  kisses  kiss'd  by  thought, 
What  love-deeds  by  fancy  done, 
Death  to  endless  dust  hath  wrought ! 

Had  the  fates  been  kind  as  thou, 
Who,  till  now,  was  never  cold, 
Once  Love's  aptest  scholar,  now 
Thou  hadst  been  his  teacher  bold  j 


»  After  CaUimacbu*. 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 


233 


But,  if  buried  seeds  upthrow 

Fruits  and  flowers  ;  if  flower  and  fruit 

By  their  nature  fitly  show 

What  the  seeds  are,  whence  they  shoot, 


Dionysia,  o'er  this  tomb, 
Where  thy  buried  beauties  be, 
From  their  dust  shall  spring  and  bloom 
Loves  and  graces  like  to  thee. 


Cobcntcp  fpatmore 


FROM    "THE     ANGEL    IN    THE 
HOUSE" 

THE  DEAN'S  CONSENT 

THE  Ladies  rose.    I  held  the  door, 

And  sigh'd,  as  her  departing  grace 
Assur'd  me  that  she  always  wore 

A  heart  as  happy  as  her  face  ; 
And,  jealous  of  the  winds  that  blew, 

I  dreaded,  o'er  the  tasteless  wine, 
What  fortune  momently  might  do 

To  hurt  the  hope  that  she  'd  be  mine. 

Towards  my  mark  the  Dean's  talk  set  : 

He  praised  my  "Notes  on  Abury," 
Read  when  the  Association  met 

At  Sarum  ;  he  was  pleas'd  to  see 
I  had  not  stopp'd,  as  some  men  had, 

At  Wrangler  and  Prize  Poet ;  last, 
He  hop'd  the  business  was  not  bad 

I  came  about :  then  the  wine  pass'd. 

A  full  glass  prefaced  my  reply  : 

I  lov  d  his  daughter,  Honor  ;  I  told 
My  estate  and  prospects  ;  might  I  try 

To  win  her  ?     At  my  words  so  bold 
My  sick  heart  sank.     Then  he  :  He  gave 

His  glad  consent,  if  I  could  get 
Her   love.      A   dear,    good   Girl !    she  'd 
have 

Only  three  thousand  pounds  as  yet ; 
More  by  and  by.     Yes,  his  good  will 

Should  go  with  me  ;  he  would  not  stir  ; 

He  and  my  father  in  old  time  still 
Wish'd  I  should  one  day  marry  her  ; 
it  God  so  seldom  lets  us  take 
Our  chosen  pathway,  when  it  lies 

[n  steps  that  either  mar  or  make 
Or  alter  others'  destinies, 
mt,  though  his  blessing  and  his  pray'r 
Had  help'd,  should  help,  my  suit,  yet  he 

Left  all  to  me,  his  passive  share 
Consent  and  opportunity. 


My  chance,  he  hop'd,  was  good  :  I  'd  „„. 

Some  name  already  ;  friends  and  place 
Appear'd  within  my  reach,  but  none 

Her  mind  and  manners  would  not  grace. 
Girls  love  to  see  the  men  in  whom 

They  invest  their  vanities  adniir'd  ; 
Besides,  where  goodness  is,  there  room 

For  good  to  work  will  be  desir'd. 
'T  was  so  with  one  now  pass'd  away  ; 

And  what  she  was  at  twenty-two, 
Honor  was  now  ;  and  he  might  say 

Mine  was  a  choice  I  could  not  rue. 

% 

He  ceas'd,  and  gave  his  hand.    He  had 
won 

(And  all  my  heart  was  in  my  word) 
From  me  the  affection  of  a  son, 

Whichever  fortune  Heaven  couferr'd  ! 
Well,  well,  would  I  take  more  wine  ?  Then 

8° 

To  her  ;  she  makes  tea  on  the  lawn 
These  fine  warm  afternoons.     And  so 

We  went  whither  my  soul  was  drawn  ; 
And  her  light-hearted  ignorance 

Of  interest  in  our  discourse 
Fill'd  me  with  love,  and  seem'd  to  enhance 

Her  beauty  with  pathetic  force, 
As,  through  the  flowery  mazes  sweet, 

Fronting  the  wind  that  tint tn-M  blithe, 
And  lov'd  her  shape,  and  kiss'd  her  feet, 

Shown  to  their  insteps  proud  and  lithr, 
She   approach'd,  all   mildness  and  young 
trust, 

And  ever  her  chaste  and  noble  air 
Gave  to  love's  feast  its  choicest  gust, 

A  vague,  faint  augury  of  despair. 

HONORIA'S  SURRENDER 

From  little  signs,  like  little  stare, 
Whose  faint  impression  on  the  sense 

The  very  looking  straight  at  man, 
Or  only  seen  by  confluence  ; 

From  instinct  of  a  mutual  thought, 
Whence  sanctity  of  manners  flow'd  j 


234 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


From  chance  unconscious,  and  from  what 
Concealment,  overconscious,  show'd  ; 

Her  hand's  less  weight  upon  my  arm, 
Her  lovelier  mien  ;    that  match'd  with 
this  ; 

I  found,  and  felt  with  strange  alarm, 
I  stood  committed  to  my  bliss. 

I  grew  assur'd,  before  I  ask'd, 

That  she  'd  be  mine  without  reserve, 
And  in  her  unclaimed  graces  bask'd, 

At  leisure,  till  the  time  should  serve, 
With  just  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear  ; 
Thus  loth  to  speak  the  word  to  kill 

Either  the  hope  or  happy  fear. 

Till  once,  through  lanes  returning  late, 

Her  laughing  sisters  lagg'd  behind  ; 
And,  ere  we  reach'd  her  father's  gate, 

We  paus'd  with  one  presentient  mind  ; 
And,  in  the  dim  and  perfum'd  mist, 

Their  coming  stay'd,  who,  friends  to  me, 
And  very  women,  lov'd  to  assist 

Love's  timid  opportunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died  my  trembling  word  ; 

The  faint  and  frail  Cathedral  chimes 
Spake  time  in  music,  and  we  heard 

The  chafers  rustling  in  the  limes. 
Her  dress,  that  touch'd  me  where  I  stood, 

The  warmth  of  her  confided  arm, 
Her  bosom's  gentle  neighborhood, 

Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  charm  ; 
Her  look,  her  love,  her  form,  her  touch, 

The  least  seem'd  most  by  blissful  turn, 
Blissful  but  that  it  pleas'd  too  much, 

And  taught  the  wayward  soul  to  yearn. 
It  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 

Was  travers'd  by  the  breath  I  drew ; 
And,  oh,  sweet  meeting  of  desires, 

She,  answering,  own'd  that  she  lov'd  too. 

Honoria  was  to  be  my  bride  ! 

The  hopeless  heights  of  hope  were  scal'd  ; 
The  svimmit  won,  I  paus'd  and  sigh'd, 

As  if  success  itself  had  fail'd. 
It  seem'd  as  if  my  lips  approach'd 

To  touch  at  Tantalus'  reward, 
And  rashly  on  Eden  life  encroach'd, 

Half-blinded  by  the  flaming  sword. 
The  whole  world's  wealthiest  and  its  best, 

So  fiercely  sought,  appear'd,  when  found, 
Poor  in  its  need  to  be  possess'd, 

Poor  from  its  very  want  of  bound. 


My  queen  was  crouching  at  my  side, 

By  love  unsceptred  and  brought  low, 
Her  awful  garb  of  maiden  pride 

All  melted  into  tears  like  snow  ; 
The  mistress  of  my  reverent  thought, 

Whose  praise  was  all  I  ask'd  of  fame, 
In  my  close-watch'd  approval  sought 

Protection  as  from  danger  and  blame  j 
Her  soul,  which  late  I  lov'd  to  invest 

With  pity  for  my  poor  desert, 
Buried  its  face  within  my  breast, 

Like  a  pet  fawn  by  hunters  hurt. 

THE   MARRIED   LOVER 

Why,  having  won  her,  do  I  woo  ? 

Because  her  spirit's  vestal  grace 
Provokes  me  always  to  pursue, 

But,  spirit-like,  eludes  embrace  ; 
Because  her  womanhood  is  such 

That,  as  on  court-days  subjects  kiss 
The  Queen's  hand,  yet  so  near  a  touch 

Affirms  no  mean  familiarness, 
Nay,  rather  marks  more  fair  the  height 

Which  can  with  safety  so  neglect 
To  dread,  as  lower  ladies  might, 

That  grace  could  meet  with  disrespect, 
Thus  she  with  happy  favor  feeds 

Allegiance  from  a  love  so  high 
That  thence  no  false  conceit  proceeds 

Of  difference  bridged,  or  state  put  by  ; 
Because,  although  in  act  and  word 

As  lowly  as  a  wife  can  be, 
Her  manners,  when  they  call  me  lord, 

Remind  me  't  is  by  courtesy  ; 
Not  with  her  least  consent  of  will, 

Which  would  my  proud  affection  hurt, 
But  by  the  noble  style  that  still 

Imputes  an  unattain'd  desert  ; 
Because  her  gay  and  lofty  brows, 

When  all  is  won  which  hope  can  ask, 
Reflect  a  light  of  hopeless  snows 

That  bright  in  virgin  ether  bask  ; 
Because,  though  free  of  the  outer  court 

I  am,  this  Temple  keeps  its  shrine 
Sacred  to  Heaven  ;  because,  in  short, 

She 's  not  and  never  can  be  mine. 

Feasts  satiate  ;  stars  distress  with  height ; 

Friendship  means  well,  'but  misses  reach, 
And  wearies  in  its  best  delight 

Vex'd  with  the  vanities  of  speech  ; 
Too  long  regarded,  roses  even 

Afflict  the  mind  with  fond  unrest ; 
And  to  converse  direct  with  Heaven 

Is  oft  a  labor  in  the  breast ; 


COVENTRY   PATMORE 


235 


Whate'er  the  up-looking  soul  admires, 

Whute'er  the  senses'  banquet  be, 
Fatigues  at  last  with  vain  desires, 

Or  sickens  by  satiety  ; 
But  truly  my  delight  was  more 

In  her  to  whom  I  'in  bound  for  aye 
Yesterday  than  the  day  before, 

And  more  to-day  than  yesterday. 

THE   GIRL  OF   ALL   PERIODS 

"AND  even  our  women,"  lastly  grumbles 
Ben, 

"  Leaving  their  nature,  dress  and  talk  like 
men ! " 

A  damsel,  as  our  train  stops  at  Five  Ashes, 

Down  to  the  station  in  a  dog-cart  dashes. 

A  footman  buys  her  ticket,  "  Third  class, 
parly  ; " 

And,  in  huge-button'd  coat  and  "Cham 
pagne  Charley  " 

And  such  scant  manhood  else  as  use  allows 
her, 

Her  two  shy  knees  bound  in  a  single  trouser, 

With,  'twixt  her  shapely  lips,  a  violet 

Perch'd  as  a  proxy  for  a  cigarette, 

She  takes  her  window  in  our  smoking  car 
riage, 

And  scans  us,  calmly  scorning  men  and 
marriage. 

Ben  frowns  in  silence  ;  older,  I  know  bet 
ter 

Than  to  read  ladies  'havior  in  the  letter. 

This  aping  man  is  crafty  Love's  devising 

To  make  the  woman's  difference  more  sur 
prising  ; 

And,  as  for  feeling  wroth  at  such  rebelling, 

Who  'd  scold  the  child  for  now  and  then 
repelling 

Lures  with  "  I  won't ! "  or  for  a  moment's 
straying 

In  its  sure  growth  towards  more  full  obey 
ing  ? 

"Yes,  she  had  read  the  'Legend  of  the 
Ages,' 

And  George  Sand  too,  skipping  the  wicked 
pages." 

And,  whilst  we  talk'd,  her  protest  firm  and 
perky 

Against  mankind,  I  thought,  grew  lax  and 
jerky  ; 

And,  at  a  compliment,  her  mouth's  corn- 
pressure 

Nipp'd  in  its  birth  a  little  laugh  of  pleas- 


And  smiles,  forbidden  her  lips,  as  weakness 

horrid, 
Broke,  in  grave  lights,  from  eyes  and  chin 

and  forehead  ; 
And,  as  I  pusb'd  kind  'vantage  'gainst  the 

scorner, 

The  two  shy  knees  press'd  shyer  to  the  cor 
ner  ; 

And  Ben  began  to  talk  with  her,  the  rather 
Because  he  found  out  that  be  knew  her 

father, 

Sir  Francis  Applegarth,  of  Fenny  Comnton, 
And  danced  once  with  her  sister  Maude  at 

Brompton  ; 
And  then  he  star'd  until  he  quite  confus'd 

her, 
More  pleas'd  with  her  than  I,  who  but  ex- 

cus'd  her  ; 
And,  when  she  got  out,  be,  with  sheepish 

glances, 
Said  he  'd  stop  too,  and  call  on  old  Sir 

Francis. 

FROM   "THE  UNKNOWN   EROS" 

THE  TOYS 

MY  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thought 
ful  eyes 

And  mov'd  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up 
wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 

With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder 
sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 

With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my 
own  ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there 
with  careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 

To  God,  I  wept,  and  said  : 


236 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys, 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the 

clay, 

Thou  'It  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

THE   TWO   DESERTS 

Not  greatly  mov'd  with  awe  am  1 
To  learn  that  we  may  spy 
Five  thousand  firmaments  beyond  our  own. 
The  best  that  'a  known 
Of  the  heavenly  bodies  does  them  credit 

small. 

View'd  close,  the  Moon's  fair  ball 
Is  of  ill  objects  worst, 
A  corpse  in  Night's  highway,  naked,  fire- 

scarr'd,  accurst  ; 
And  now  they  tell 
That  the  Sun  is  plainly  seen  to  boil  and 

burst 

Too  horribly  for  hell. 
So,  judging  from  these  two, 
As  we  must  do, 

The  Universe,  outside  our  living  Earth, 
Was  all  conceiv'd  in  the  Creator's  mirth, 
Forecasting  at  the  time  Man's  spirit  deep, 
To  make  dirt  cheap. 
Put  by  the  Telescope  ! 
Better  without  it  man  may  see, 
Stretch'd  awful  in  the  hush'd  midnight, 
The  ghost  of  his  eternity. 


Give  me  the  nobler  glass  that  swells  to  the 

eye 

The  things  which  near  us  lie, 
Till  Science  rapturously  hails, 
In  the  minutest  water-drop, 
A  torment  of  innumerable  tails. 
These  at  the  least  do  live. 
But  rather  give 
A  mind  not  much  to  pry 
Beyond  our  royal-fair  estate 
Betwixt  these  deserts  blank  of  small  and 

great. 

Wonder  and  beauty  our  own  courtiers  are, 
Pressing  to  catch  our  gaze, 
And  out  of  obvious  ways 
Ne'er  wandering  far. 

REGINA   OELI 

SAY,  did  his   sisters  wonder   what   could 

Joseph  see 

In  a  mild,  silent  little  Maid  like  thee  ? 
And  was  it  awful,  in  that  narrow  house, 
With  God  for  Babe  and  Spouse  ? 
Nay,  like  thy  simple,  female  sort,  each  one 
Apt  to  find  Him  in  Husband  and  in  Son, 
Nothing  to  thee  came  strange  in  this. 
Thy  wonder  was  but  wondrous  bliss  : 
Wondrous,  for,  though 
True  Virgin  lives  not  but  does  know, 
(Howbeit  none  ever  yet  confess'd,) 
That  God  lies  really  in  her  breast, 
Of  thine  He  made  His  special  nest  ! 
And  so 

All  mothers  worship  little  feet, 
And  kiss  the  very  ground  they  've  trod  ; 
But,  ah,  thy  little  Baby  sweet 
Who  was  indeed  thy  God  ! 


IBaltct 


DAUGHTERS    OF   PHILISTIA 

FROM   "OLRIG  GRANGE" 

LADY  ANNE  DEWHURST  on  a  crimson  couch 
Lay,  with  a  rug  of  sable  o'er  her  knees, 
In  a  bright  boudoir  in  Belgravia  ; 
Most  perfectly  array'd  in  shapely  robe 
Of  sumptuous  satin,  lit  up  here  and  there 
With  scarlet  touches,  and  with  costly  lace, 
Nice-finger'd  maidens  knotted  in  Brabant ; 


And  all  around  her  spread  magnificence 
Of  bronzes,  Sevres  vases,  marquetrie, 
Rare  buhl,  and  bric-a-brac  of  every  kind, 
From  Rome  and  Paris  and  the  centuries 
Of  far-off  beauty.     All  of  goodly  color, 
Or  graceful  form  that  could  delight  the 

eye, 

In  orderly  disorder  lay  around, 
And    flowers   with    perfume    scented    the 

warm  air. 


WALTER  C.   SMITH 


237 


Stately  and  large  and  beautiful  was  she 
Spite  of  her  sixty  summers,  with  an  eye 
Train'd  to  soft  languors,  that  could  also 

Hash, 
Keen   as   a    sword   and   sharp  —  a    black 

bright  eye, 

Deep  sunk  beneath  an  arch  of  jet.     She  had 
I  A  weary  look,  and  yet  the  weariness 
Seeni'd  not  so  native  as  the  worldliness 
Which     blended     with    it.      Weary    and 

worldly,  she 

Had  quite  resign'd  herself  to  misery 
I  In  this  sad  vale  of  tears,  but  fully  meant 
I  To  nurse  her  sorrow  in  a  sumptuous  fashion, 
»    And  make  it  an  expensive  luxury  ; 
I  For  nothing  she  esteem'd  that  nothing  cost. 

Beside  her,  on  a  table  round,  inlaid 
With  precious  stones   by  Roman  art  de- 
si  gn'd, 

Lay  phials,  scent,  a  novel  and  a  Bible, 
|   A  pill  box,  and  a  wine  glass,  and  a  book 
i    On  the  Apocalypse  ;  for  she  was  much 
1    Addicted  unto  physic  and  religion, 
I  And  her  physician  had  prescrib'd  for  her 
I    Jellies  and  wines  and  cheerful  Literature. 
The  Book  on  the  Apocalypse  was  writ 
By  her  chosen  pastor,  and   she   took  the 

novel 

With   the   dry  sherry,  and   the   pills   pre 
scrib'd. 

A  gorgeous,  pious,  comfortable  life 
Of  misery  she  lived  ;  and  all  the  sins 
Of  all  her  house,  and  all  the  nation's  sins, 
And  all  shortcomings  of  the  Church  and 

State, 

And  all  the  sins  of  all  the  world  beside, 
Bore  as  her  special  cross,  confessing  them 
Vicariously  day  by  day,  and  then 
She  comforted  her  heart,  which  needed  it, 
With  bric-a-brac  and  jelly  and  old  wine. 

Beside  the  fire,  her  elbow  on  the  mantel, 
And  forehead  resting  on  her  finger-tips, 
Shading  a  face  where  sometimes  loom'd  a 

frown, 
And  sometimes  flash'd  a  gleam  of  bitter 

scorn, 
Her  daughter  stood;  no  more  a  graceful 

girl, 

But  in  the  glory  of  her  womanhood, 
Stately  and  haughty.     One  who  might  have 

been 

A  noble  woman  in  a  nobler  world, 
But  now  was  only  woman  of  her  world  ; 


With  just  enough    of   better  thought  to 

know 

It  was  not  noble,  and  despise  it  all, 
And  most  herself  for  making  it  her  all. 
A  woman,  complex,  intricate,  itivolv'd  ; 
Wrestling  with  self,  yet  still  by  self  sub 
dued  ; 

Scorning  herself  for  being  what  she  was, 
And  yet  unable  to  be  that  she  would  ; 
Uneasy  with  the  sense  of  possible  good 
Never  attain'd,  nor  sought,  except  in  fit* 
Ending  in  failures  ;  conscious,  too,  of  power 
Which  found  no  purpose  to  direct  its  force, 
And  so  came  back  upon  herself,  and  grew 
An  inward   fret.     The   caged  bird  some 
times  diish'd 
Against  the  wires,  and  sometimes  sat  and 

pin'd, 
But  mainly  peck'd  her  sugar,  and  eyed  her 

glass, 

And  trill'd  her  graver  thoughts  away  in 
song. 

Mother  and   daughter  —  yet    a    childless 

mother, 
And   motherless   her   daughter ;   for   the 

world 

Had  gash'd  a  chasm  between,  impassable, 
And  they  had  nought  in  common,  neither 

love, 

Nor  hate,  nor  anything  except  a  name. 
Yet  both  were  of  the  world;  and  she  not 

least 
Whose  world  was  the  religious  one,  and 

stretch'd 
A  kind  of  isthmus  'tween  the  Devil  and 

God, 

A  slimy,  oozy  mud,  where  mandrakes  grew, 
Ghastly,  with  intertwisted  roots,  and  things 
Amphibious  haunted,  and  the  leathern  bat 
Flicker'd  about  its  twilight  evermore. 

THE  SELF-EXILED 

THERE  came  a  soul  to  the  gate  of  Heaven 

Gliding  slow  — 
A  soul  that  was  ransom'd  and  forgiven, 

And  white  as  snow  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

A  mystic  light  beam'd  from  the  face 

Of  the  radiant  maid, 
But  there  also  lay  on  its  tender  grace 

A  mystic  shade  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent 


238 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


As  sunlit  clouds  by  a  zephyr  borne 

Seem  not  to  stir, 
So  to  the  golden  gates  of  morn 

They  carried  her  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Now  open  the  gate,  and  let  her  in, 

And  fling  it  wide, 

For  she  has  been  cleans'd  from  stain  of 
sin," 

St.  Peter  cried  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Though  I  am  cleans'd  from  stain  of  sin," 

She  answer'd  low, 
"  I  came  not  hither  to  enter  in, 

Nor  may  I  go  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  come,"  she  said,  "  to  the  pearly  door, 

To  see  the  Throne 
Where  sits  the  Lamb  on  the  Sapphire  Floor, 

With  God  alone  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  come  to  hear  the  new  song  they  sing 

To  Him  that  died, 
And  note  where  the  healing  waters  spring 

From  His  pierced  side  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  But  I  may  not  enter  there,"  she  said, 

."  For  I  must  go 
Across  the  gulf  where  the  guilty  dead 

Lie  in  their  woe  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  If  I  enter  heaven  I  may  not  pass 

To  where  they  be. 
Though  the  wail  of  their  bitter  pain,  alas  ! 

Tormenteth  me  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

*  If  I  enter  heaven  I  may  not  speak 

My  soul's  desire 

For  them  that  are   lying  distraught  and 
weak 

In  flaming  fire  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  had  a  brother,  and  also  another 

Whom  I  lov'd  well  ; 
What  if,  in  anguish,  they  curse  each  other 

In  the  depths  of  hell  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


"  How  could  I  touch  the  golden  harps, 

When  all  my  praise 
Would  be  so  wrought  with  grief-full  warps 

Of  their  sad  days  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  How  love  the  lov'd  who  are  sorrowing, 

And  yet  be  glad  ? 
How  sing  the  songs  ye  are  fain  to  sing, 

While  I  am  sad  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Oh,  clear  as  glass  is  the  golden  street 

Of  the  city  fair, 
And  the  tree  of  life  it  maketh  sweet 

The  lightsome  air  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  And   the   white-rob'd    saints   with   their 
crowns  and  palms 

Are  good  to  see, 
And  oh,  so  grand  are  the  sounding  psalms  1 

But  not  for  me  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"I  come  where  there  is  no  night,"  she  said, 

"  To  go  away, 
And  help,  if  I  yet  may  help,  the  dead 

That  have  no  day." 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

St.  Peter  he  turned  the  keys  about, 

And  answer  M  grim  : 

"  Can  you  love  the  Lord,  and  abide  with 
out, 

Afar  from  Him?" 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Can  you  love  the  Lord  who  died  for  you, 

And  leave  the  place 
Where  His  glory  is  all  disclos'd  to  view, 

And  tender  grace  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  They  go  not  out  who  come  in  here  ; 

It  were  not  meet  : 
Nothing  they  lack,  for  He  is  here, 

And  bliss  complete." 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Should  I  be  nearer  Christ,"  she  said, 

"  By  pitying  less 
The  sinful  living  or  woeful  dead 

In  their  helplessness  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


W.  C.   SMITH  — PALGRAVE 


239 


«  Should  I  be  liker  Christ  were  I 

To  love  no  more 
The  lov'd,  who  in  their  anguish  lie 

Outside  the  door  ?  " 
And  the  aiigels  all  were  silent. 

11  Did  He  not  hang  on  the  curs'd  tree, 

And  bear  its  shame, 
And  clasp  to  His  heart,  for  love  of  me, 

My  guilt  and  blame  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Should  I  be  liker,  nearer  Him, 

Forgetting  this, 
Singing  all  day  with  the  Seraphim, 

In  selfish  bliss  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

The  Lord  Himself  stood  by  the  gate, 
And  heard  her  speak 


Those  tender  words  compassionate, 

Gentle  and  meek  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent 

Now,  pity  is  the  touch  of  God 

In  human  hearts, 
And  from  that  way  He  ever  trod 

He  ne'er  departs : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent 

And  He  said,  "  Now  will  I  go  with  yon, 

Dear  child  of  love, 
I  am  weary  of  all  this  glory,  too, 

In  heaven  above  : " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent 

"  We  will  go  seek  and  save  the  lost, 

If  they  will  hear, 
They  who  are  worst  but  need  me  most, 

And  all  are  dear  :  " 
And  the  angels  were  not  silent 


f  rating  €urnec  $algratoe 


THE   ANCIENT   AND    MODERN 
MUSES 

THE  monument  outlasting  bronze 

Was  promis'd  well  by  bards  of  old  ; 
The  lucid  outline  of  their  lay 
Its  sweet  precision  keeps  for  aye, 
Fix'd  in  the  ductile  language-gold. 

But  we  who  work  with  smaller  skill, 

And  less  refin'd  material  mould,  — 
This  close  conglomerate  English  speech, 
Bequest  of  many  tribes,  that  each 

Brought   here  and  wrought  at  from  of 
old, 

Residuum  rough,  eked  out  by  rhyme, 

Barbarian  ornament  uncouth,  — 
Our  hope  is  less  to  last  through  Art 
Than  deeper  searching  of  the  heart, 
Than  broader  range  of  utter'd  truth. 

One  keen-cut  group,  one  deed  or  aim 
Athenian  Sophocles  could  show, 

And    rest     content  ;     but     Shakespeare's 
stage 

Must  hold  the  glass  to  every  age,  — 
A  thousand  forms  and  passions  glow 


Upon  the  world-wide  canvas.    So 
With  larger  scope  our  art  we  play  ; 

And  if  the  crown  be  harder  won, 

Diviner  rays  around  it  run, 

With  strains  of  fuller  harmony. 


PRO    MORTUIS 

WHAT  should  a  man  desire  to  leave  ? 
A  flawless  work  ;  a  noble  life  : 
Some  music  harmoniz'd  from  strife, 
Some  finish'd  thing,  ere  the  slack  hands  at 

eve 
Drop,  should  be  his  to  leave. 

One  gem  of  song,  defying  age  ; 

A  hard-won  fight ;  a  well-work'd  farm; 
A  law  no  guile  can  twist  to  bane  ; 
Some  tale,  as  our  lost  Thackeray's  bright, 

or  sage 
As  the  just  Hallam's  page. 

Or,  in  life's  homeliest,  meanest  spot, 
With  temperate  step  from  year  to  year 
To  move  within  his  little  sphere, 
Leaving  a  pure  name  to  be  known,  or  not,  — 
This  is  a  true  man's  lot 


240 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


He  dies  :  he  leaves  the  deed  or  name, 
A  gift  forever  to  his  land, 
In  trust  to  Friendship's  prudent  hand, 
Round  'gainst  all  adverse  shocks  to  guard 

his  fame, 
Or  to  the  world  proclaim. 

But  the  imperfect  thing  or  thought,  — 
The  crudities  and  yeast  of  youth, 
The  dubious  doubt,  the  twilight  truth, 
The   work   that  for   the  passing  day  was 

wrought, 
The  schemes  that  came  to  nought, 

The   sketch  half-way  'twixt   verse   and 

prose 

That  mocks  the  finish'd  picture  true, 
The  quarry  whence  the  statue  grew, 
The  scaffolding  'neath  which  the  palace  rose, 
The  vague  abortive  throes 

And  fever-fits  of  joy  or  gloom  :  — 
In  kind  oblivion  let  them  be  ! 
Nor  has  the  dead  worse  foe  than  he 
Who  rakes  these  sweepings  of  the  artist's 

room, 
And  piles  them  on  his  tomb. 

Ah,  't  is  but  little  that  the  best, 
Frail  children  of  a  fleeting  hour, 
Can  leave  of  perfect  fruit  or  flower  ! 
Ah,  let  all  else  be  graciously  supprest 
When  man  lies  down  to  rest ! 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 
1845 

GENTLE  and  grave,  in  simple  dress, 
And  features  by  keen  mountain  air 
Moulded  to  solemn  ruggedness, 
The  man  we  came  to  see  sat  there  : 
Not  apt  for  speech,  nor  quickly  stirr'd 
Unless  when  heart  to  heart  replied; 
A  bearing  equally  remov'd 
From  vain  display  or  sullen  pride. 

The  sinewy  frame  yet  spoke  of  one 
Known  to  the  hillsides  :  on  his  head 
Some  five-and-seventy  winters  gone 
Their  crown  of  perfect  white  had  shed:  — 
As  snow-tipp'd  summits  toward  the  sun 
In  calm  of  lonely  radiance  press, 
Touch'd  by  the  broadening  light  of  death 
With  a  serener  pensiveness. 


O  crown  of  venerable  age  ! 
O  brighter  crown  of  well-spent  years  i 
The  bard,  the  patriot,  and  the  sage, 
The  heart  that  never  bow'd  to  fears  ! 
That  was  an  age  of  soaring  souls  ; 
Yet  none  with  a  more  liberal  scope 
Survey'd  the  sphere  of  human  things  j 
None  with  such  manliness  of  hope. 

Others,  perchance,  as  keenly  felt, 
As  musically  sang  as  he  ; 
To  Nature  as  devoutly  knelt, 
Or  toil'd  to  serve  humanity  : 
But  none  with  those  ethereal  notes, 
That  star-like  sweep  of  self-control ; 
The  insight  into  worlds  unseen, 
The  lucid  sanity  of  soul. 

The  fever  of  our  fretful  life, 
The  autumn  poison  of  the  air, 
The  soul  with  its  own  self  at  strife, 
He  saw  and  felt,  but  could  not  share  : 
With  eye  made  clear  by  pureness,  pierced 
The  life  of  Man  and  Nature  through  ; 
And  read  the  heart  of-  common  things, 
Till  new  seein'd  old,  and  old  was  new. 

To  his  own  self  not  always  just, 

Bound  in  the  bonds  that  all  men  share,  — 

Confess  the  failings  as  we  must, 

The  lion's  mark  is  always  there  ! 

Nor  any  song  so  pure,  so  great 

Since  his,  who  closed  the  sightless  eyes, 

Our  Homer  of  the  war  in  Heaven, 

To  wake  in  his  own  Paradise. 

O  blaring  trumpets  of  the  world  ! 
O  glories,  in  their  budding  sere  ! 
O  flaunting  roll  of  Fame  unfurl'd  ! 
Here  was  the  king  —  the  hero  here  ! 
It  was  a  strength  and  joy  for  life 
In  that 'great  presence  once  to  be  ; 
That  on  the  boy  he  gently  smil'd, 
That  those  white  hands  were  laid  on  me. 


A   LITTLE   CHILD'S   HYMN 

FOR  NIGHT   AND   MORNING 

THOU  that  once,  on  mother's  knee, 
Wast  a  little  one  like  me, 
When  I  wake  or  go  to  bed 
Lay  thy  hands  about  my  head  : 
Let  me  feel  thee  very  near, 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour  dear. 


PALGRAVE—  HUXLEY 


241 


Be  beside  me  in  the  light, 
Close  by  me  through  all  the  night  ; 
Make  me  gentle,  kind,  and  true, 
Do  what  mother  bids  me  do  ; 
Help  and  dheer  me  when  I  fret, 
And  forgive  when  I  forget. 

Once  wast  thou  in  cradle  laid, 
Baby  bright  in  manger-shade, 
With  the  oxen  and  the  cows, 
And  the  lambs  outside  the  house  : 
Now  thou  art  above  the  sky  : 
Canst  thou  hear  a  baby  cry  ? 

Thou  art  nearer  when  we  pray, 
Since  thou  art  so  far  away  ; 
Thou  my  little  hymn  wilt  hear, 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour  dear, 
Thou  that  once,  on  mother's  knee-, 
Wast  a  little  one  like  me. 


A   DANISH    BARROW 

ON  THE  EAST  DEVON  COAST 

LIE  still,  old  Dane,  below  thy  heap  ! 
A  sturdy-back  and  sturdy-limb, 
Whoe'er  he  was,  I  warrant  him 

Upon  whose  mound  the  single  sheep 
Browses  and  tinkles  in  the  sun, 
Within  the  narrow  vale  alone. 

Lie  still,  old  Dane  !     This  restful  scene 
Suits  well  thy  centuries  of  sleep  : 
The  soft  brown  roots  above  thee  creep, 


The  lotus  flaunts  bis  ruddy  sheen, 
And,  —  vain  memento  of  the  spot,— 
The  turquoise-eyed  forget-me-not. 

Lie  still  i     Thy  mother-land  herself 
Would  know  thee  not  again  :  no  more 
The  Raven  from  the  northern  shore 

Hails  the  bold  crew  to  push  for  pelf, 

Through  fire  and  blood  and  slaughtered 

kings 
'Neath  the  black  terror  of  his  wings. 

And  thou,  —  thy  very  name  is  lost  I 
The  peasant  only  knows  that  here 
Bold  Alfred  scoop'd  thy  flinty  bier, 

And  pray'd  a  foeman's  prayer,  and  toil 
His  auburn  head,  and  said,  "  One  more 
Of    England's    foes    guards    England's 
shore," 

And  turn'd  and  pass'd  to  other  feats, 
And  left  thee  in  thine  iron  robe, 
To  circle  with  the  circling  globe, 

While  Time's  corrosive  dewdrop  eats 
The  giant  warrior  to  a  crust 
Of  earth  in  earth,  and  rust  in  rust 

So  lie  :  and  let  the  children  play 
And  sit  like  flowers  upon  thy  grave 
And  crown  with  flowers,  —  that  hardly 
have 

A  briefer  blooming-tide  than  they  ;  — 
By  hurrying  years  urged  on  to  rest, 
As  thou,  within  the  Mother's  breast. 


TENNYSON 

(WESTMINSTER  ABBEY:  OCTOBER  12,  1892) 
GIB   DIESEN   TODTEN   MIR   HERAUS 

(The  Minster  speaks) 

BRING  me  my  dead  ! 
To  me  that  have  grown, 
Stone  laid  upon  stone, 
As  the  stormy  brood 
Of  English  blood 
Has  wax'd  and  spread 
And  fill'd  the  world, 
With  sails  unf  url'd  ; 


!  I 


With  men  that  may  not  lie  ; 
With  thoughts  that  cannot  die. 

Bring  me  my  dead  ! 

Into  the  storied  hall, 

Where  I  have  garner'd  all 

My  harvest  without  weed  ; 

My  chosen  fruits  of  goodly  seed  , 

And  lay  him  gently  aown  among 

The  men  of  state,  the  men  of  song : 

The  men  that  would  not  suffer  wrong : 

The  thought-worn  chieftains  of  the  mind  1 

Head-servants  of  the  human  kind. 


»  Don  Carlos. 


242 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Bring  me  my  dead  ! 

The  autumn  sun  shall  shed 

Its  beams  athwart  the  bier's 

Heap'd  blooms  :  a  many  tears 

Shall  flow  ;  his  words,  in  cadence  sweet  and 

strong, 
Shall   voice   the   full  hearts  of  the  silent 

throng. 
Bring  me  my  dead  ! 


And  oh  !  sad  wedded  mourner,  seeking  still 
For  vauish'd  hand  clasp  :  drinking  in  thy 

fill 

Of  holy  grief  ;  forgive,  that  pious  theft 
Robs  thee  of  all,  save  memories,  left  : 
Not  thine  to  kneel  beside  the  grassy  mound 
While  dies  the  western  glow  ;  and  all  around 
Is  silence  ;  and  the  shadows  closer  creep 
And  whisper  softly  :  All  must  fall  asleep. 


DORIS:  A  PASTORAL 

I  SAT  with  Doris,  the  shepherd-maiden  ; 
Her    crook    was    laden    with   wreathed 

flowers  : 
I    sat   and    woo'd    her,   through   sunlight 

wheeling 

And  shadows   stealing,   for    hours    and 
hours. 

And  she,  my  Doris,  whose  lap  encloses 

Wild  summer-roses  of  sweet  perfume, 
The  while  I  sued   her,   kept   hush'd   and 

hearken'd, 

Till  shades  had  darken'd  from  gloss  to 
gloom. 

She  touch'd  my  shoulder  with  fearful  finger; 
She  said,  "  We  linger,  we  must  not  stay  : 
My  flock 's  in  danger,  my  sheep  will  wan 
der  ; 

Behold    them    yonder,    how    far    they 
stray  !  " 

I  answer'd  bolder,  "  Nay,  let  me  hear  you, 
And  still  be  near  you,  and  still  adore  ! 

No  wolf  nor  stranger  will  touch  one  year 
ling  : 
Ah  !  stay,  my  darling,  a  moment  more  !  " 

She    whisper'd,    sighing,   "There   will   be 
sorrow 

Beyond  to-morrow,  if  I  lose  to-day  ; 
My  fold  unguarded,  my  flock  unfolded, 

I  shall  be  scolded  and  sent  away." 

Said  I,  denying,  "  If  they  do  miss  you, 
They  ought  to  kiss  you  when  you  get 
home  ; 


And  well  rewarded  by  friend  and  neighbor 
Should   be   the   labor  from    which   you 


"  They  might    remember,"   she    answer'd 

meekly, 
"  That  lambs  are  weakly,  and  sheep  are 

wild; 

But  if  they  love  me,  it 's  none  so  fervent : 
I  am  a  servant,  and  not  a  child." 

Then  each  hot  ember  glow'd  within  me, 
And  love  did  win  me  to  swift  reply  : 

"  Ah  !  do   but  prove  me  ;  and  none  shall 

bind  you, 
Nor  fray  nor  find  you,  until  I  die." 

She  blush'd  and  started,  and  stood  await 
ing, 

As  if  debating  in  dreams  divine  ; 
But  I  did  brave  them  ;  I  told  her  plainly 

She  doubted  vainly,  she  must  be  mine. 

So  we,  twin-hearted,  from  all  the  valley 
Did  rouse  and  rally  her  nibbling  ewes  ; 

And  homeward  drave  them,  we  two  together, 
Through  blooming  heather  and  gleaming 
dews. 

That  simple  duty  fresh  grace  did  lend  her, 
My  Doris  tender,  my  Doris  true  ; 

That  I,  her  warder,  did  always  bless  her, 
And  often  press  her  to  take  her  due. 

And  now  in  beauty  she  fills  my  dwelling, 
With  love  excelling,  and  undefil'd  ; 

And  love  doth  guard  her,  both  fast  and 

fervent, 
No  more  a  servant,  nor  yet  a  child. 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY 


243 


FROM    "DOROTHY:   A  COUNTRY 
STORY" 

DOROTHY 

DOROTHY  goes  with  her  pails  to  the  ancient 

well  in  the  courtyard 
Daily  at  gray  of  mom,  daily  ere  twilight 

at  eve  ; 
Often  and  often  again  she  winds   at   the 

mighty  old  windlass, 
Still  with  her  strong  red  arms  landing 

the  bucket  aright  : 
Then,  her  beechen  yoke  press'd  down  on 

her  broad  square  shoulders, 
Stately,  erect,  like  a  queen,  she  with  her 

burden  returns  : 
She  with  her  burden  returns  to  the  fields 

that  she  loves,  to  the  cattle 
Lowing   beside  the  troughs,  welcoming 

her  and  her  pails. 
Dorothy  —  who  is  she  ?     She  is  only  a  ser- 

vant-of-all-work  ; 
Servant  at  White  Rose  Farm,  under  the 

cliff  in  the  vale  : 
Under  the  sandstone  cliff,  where  martins 

build  in  the  springtime, 
Hard  by  the  green  level  meads,  hard  by 

the  streams  of  the  Yore. 
Oh,  what  a  notable  lass  is  our  Dolly,  the 

pride  of  the  dairy  ! 
Stalwart  and  tall  as  a  man,  strong  as  a 

heifer  to  work  : 
Built  for  beauty,  indeed,  but  certainly  built 

for  labor  — 

Witness  her  muscular  arm,  witness  the 
grip  of  her  hand  ! 


Weakly  her  mistress  was,  and  weakly  the 

two  little  daughters  ; 
But  by  her  master's  side  Dorothy  wrought 

like  a  son  : 
Wrought  out  of  doors  on  the  farm,  and 

labor'd  in  dairy  and  kitchen, 
Doing  the  work  of  two  ;  help  and  sup 
port  of  them  all. 
Rough  were  her  broad  brown  hands,  and 

within,  ah  me  !  they  were  horny  ; 
Rough    were    her    thick    ruddy    arms, 

shapely  and  round  as  they  were  ; 
Rough  too  her  glowing  cheeks  ;  and  her 

sunburnt  face  and  forehead 
Browner  than  cairngorm  seem'd,  set  in 
her  amber-bright  hair. 


Yet  't  was  a  handsome,  face  ;  the  brautiful 

regular  features 
Labor  could  never  spoil,  ignorance  could 

not  degrade  : 
And  in  her  clear  blue  eyes  bright  gleams 

of  intelligence  lingered  ; 
And  on  her  warm  red  mouth,  Love  might 

have  'lighted  and  lain. 
Never  an  unkind  word  nor  a  rude  unseemly 

expression 
Came  from  that  soft  red  mouth  ;  nor  in 

those  sunny  blue  eyes 
Lived  there  a  look  that  belied  the  frankness 

of  innocent  girlhood  — 
Fearless,  because  it  is   pure  ;  gracious, 

and  gentle,  and  calm. 
Have  you  not  seen  such  a  face,  among  rural 

hardworking  maidens 
Born  but  of  peasant  stock,  free  from  our 

Dorothy's  shame  ? 
Just  such   faces  as  hers  —  a  countenance 

open  and  artless, 
Where  no  knowledge  appears,  culture, 

nor  vision  of  grace  ; 
Yet  which  an  open-air  life  and  simple  and 

strenuous  labor 
Fills  with  a  charm  of  its  own  —  precious, 

and  warm  from  the  heart  ? 
Hers  was  full  of  that  charm  ;  and  besides, 

was  something  ennobled, 
Something  adoru'd,  by  thoughts  due  to  a 

gentle  descent  : 
So  that  a  man  should  say,  if  he  saw  her 

afield  at  the  milking, 
Or  with  her  sickle  at  work  reaping  the 

barley  or  beans, 
"  There  is  a  strapping  wench  —  a  lusty  lass 

of  a  thousand, 
"  Able  to  fend  for  herself,  fit  for  the 

work  of  a  man  !  " 
But  if  he  came  more  near,  and  she  lifted 

her  face  to  behold  him, 
"Ah,"  he  would  cry,  "what  a  change  t 

Surely  a  lady  is  here  ! ' 
Yes  —  if  a  lady  be  one  who  is  gracious  and 

quiet  in  all  things, 
Thinking  no  evil  at  all,  helpful  wherever 

she  can  ; 
Then  too  at  White  Rose   Farm,  by  the 

martins'  cliff  in  the  valley, 
There  was  a  lady  ;  and  she  was  but  the 

servant  of  all. 

True,  when  she  spoke,  her  speech  was  the 
homely  speech  of  the  country  ; 


244 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Rough  with  quaint  antique  words,  pic 
turesque  sayings  of  old  : 
And,  for  the  things  that  she  said,  they  were 

nothing  but  household  phrases  — 
News  of  the  poultry  and  kine,  tidings  of 

village  and  home  ; 
But  there    was   something   withal    in   her 

musical  voice  and  her  manner 
Gave  to  such  workaday  talk  touches  of 

higher  degree. 
So  too,  abroad  and  alone,  when  she  saw  the 

sun  rise  o'er  the  meadows, 
Or  amid  golden  clouds  saw  him  descend 
ing  at  eve  ; 
Though   no   poetic  thought,  no   keen  and 

rapturous  insight, 
Troubled  her  childlike  soul,  yet  she  could 

wonder  and  gaze  ; 
Yet  she  could  welcome  the  morn  for   its 

beauty  as  well  as  its  brightness 
And,  in  the  evening  glow,  think  —  not  of 
supper  alone. 

COUNTRY   KISSES 

Curious,  the  ways  of  these  folk  of  humble 

and  hardy  condition  : 
Kisses,  amongst  ourselves,  bless  me,  how 

much  they  imply  ! 

Ere  you   can  come   to   a   kiss,  you  must 
scale    the   whole   gamut   of    court 
ship  — 
Introduction  first  ;  pretty  attentions  and 

words  ; 
Tentative  looks  ;  and  at  length,  perhaps  the 

touch  of  a  finger  ; 

Then  the  confession  ;  and  then  (if  she  al 
low  it)  the  kiss. 
So  that  a  kiss  comes  last  —  't  is  the  crown 

and  seal  of  the  whole  thing  ; 
Passion  avow'd  by  you,  fondly  accepted 

by  her. 
But  in    our  Dorothy's   class,  a   kiss   only 

marks  the  beginning  : 
Comes  me  a  light-hearted  swain,  think 
ing  of  nothing  at  all  ; 
Flings  his  fustian  sleeve  round  the  ample 

waist  of  the  maiden  ; 
Kisses  her  cheek,  and  she  —  laughingly 

thrusts  him  away. 

Why,  't  is  a  matter  of  course  ;  every  good- 
looking  damsel  expects  it  ; 
'T  is  but  the  homage,  she  feels,  paid  to  her 
beauty  by  men  : 


So  that,  at  Kiss-in-the-Ring — an  innocent 

game  and  a  good  one  — 
Strangers  in  plenty  may  kiss  :  nay,  she 
pursues,  in  her  turn. 

DOROTHY'S  ROOM 

'T  was   but  a  poor  little  room  :   a  farm- 
servant's  loft  in  a  garret  ; 
One  small  window  and  door  ;   never  a 

chimney  at  all ; 
One  little  stool  by  the  bed,  and  a  remnant 

of  cast-away  carpet ; 
But  on  the  floor,  by  the  wall,  carefully 

dusted  and  bright, 
Stood  the  green-painted  box,  our  Dorothy's 

closet  and  wardrobe, 
Holding  her  treasures,  her  all  —  all  that 

she  own'd  in  the  world  ! 
Linen  and  hosen  were  there,  coarse  linen 

and  home-knitted  hosen  ; 
Handkerchiefs  bought  at  the  fdir,  aprons 

and  smocks  not  a  few  ; 
Kirtles  for  warmth  when  afield,  and  frocks 

for  winter  and  summer, 
Blue  -  spotted,   lilac,  gray  ;    cotton   and 

woolen  and  serge  ; 
All  her  simple  attire,  save  the  clothes  she 

felt  most  like  herself  in  — 
Rough,  coarse  workaday  clothes,  fit  for 

a  laborer's  wear. 
There  was  her  Sunday  array  —  the  boots, 

and  the  shawl,  and  the  bonnet, 
Solemnly  folded  apart,  not  to  be  lightly 

assumed  ; 
There  was  her  jewelry,  too  :  't  was  a  brooch 

(she  had  worn  it  this  evening) 
Made   of   cairngorm   stone  —  really  too 

splendid  for  her ! 
Which  on  a  Martlemas  Day  Mr.  Robert 

had  bought  for  a  fairing  : 
Little  she  thought,  just  then,  how  she 

would  value  it  now  ! 
As  for  her  sewing  gear,  her  housewife,  her 

big  brass  thimble, 
Knitting  and  suchlike  work,  such  as  her 

fingers  could  do, 

That  was  away  downstairs,  in  a  dresser- 
drawer  in  the  kitchen, 
Ready  for  use  of  a  night,  when  she  was 

tidied  and  clean. 
Item,  up  there  in  the  chest  were  her  books ; 

"  The  Dairyman's  Daughter  ;  " 
Ballads;   "The  Olney  Hymns;"  Bible 
and  Prayer-book,  of  course  : 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY 


«4S 


That  was  her  library  ;  these  were  the  limits 

of  Dorothy's  reading  ; 
Wholesome,  but  scanty  indeed  :    was  it 

then  all  that  she  knew  ? 
Nay,  for  like  other  good   girls,  she   had 

profited  much  by  her  schooling 
Under  the  mighty  three  —  Nature,  and 

Labor,  and  Life  : 
Mightier  they  than  books  ;  if  books  could 

have  only  come  after, 
Thoughts  of   instructed  minds   filtering 

down  into  hers. 
That  was  impossible  now  ;   what  she  had 

been,  she  was,  and  she  would  be  ; 
Only  a  farm-serving  lass  —  only  a  peas 
ant,  I  fear ! 

Well  —  on  that  green-lidded  box,  her  name 

was  painted  in  yellow  ; 
Dorothy  Crump  were  the  words.    Crump  ? 

What  a  horrible  name  ! 
Yes,  but  they  gave  it  to  her,  because  (like 

the  box)  't  was  her  mother's  ; 
Ready  to  hand  —  though  of  course  she 

had  no  joy  in  the  name  : 
She  had  no  kin  —  and   indeed,  she  never 

had  needed  a  surname  ; 
Never  had  used  one  at  all,  never  had 

made  one  her  own  : 
Dolly  "  she  was  to  herself,  and  to  every 

one  else  she  was  "  Dolly  "  ; 
'Nothing  but  "  Dolly  "  ;  and  so,  that  was 

enough  for  a  name, 
ms  then,  her  great,  green  box,  her  one 

undoubted  possession, 
Stood  where   it  was  ;   like   her,  "  never 

went  nowhere  "  at  all  ; 
raited,  perhaps,  as  of  old,  some  beautiful 

Florentine  bride-chest, 
Till,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  He,  the  Be 
loved,  appears. — 
fas  there  naught  else  in  her  room  ?  nothing 

handy  for  washing  or  dressing  ? 
Yes  ;   on  a  plain  deal  stand,  basin,  and 

ewer,  and  dish  : 
of  them  empty,  unused  ;  for  the  sink 

was  the  place  of  her  toilet ; 
Save  on  a  Sunday  —  and   then,  she  too 

could  dress  at  her  ease  ; 
i,  by  the  little  sidewall  of  the  diamonded 

dormer-window 
She  at  a  sixpenny  glass  brush' d  out  her 

bonny  bright  hair, 
what  a  poor  little  room  !     Would  you 

like  to  sleep  in  it,  ladies  ? 


Innocence  sleeps  there  unharm'd  ;  Honor, 

and  Beauty,  and  Peace  — 
Love,  too,  has  corae  ;  and  with  these,  even 

dungeons  were  easily  cheerful ; 
But,  for  our  Dorothy's  room,  it  U  no 

dungeon  at  all. 
No!    through  the  latticed  panes  of  the 

diamonded  dormer-window 
Dorothy  looks  on  a  world  free  and  fa 
miliar  and  fair : 
Looks   on  the  fair  farm-yard,  where  the 

poultry  and  cattle  she  lives  with 
Bellow  and  cackle  and  low  —  music  de 
lightful  to  her  ; 

Looks  on  the  fragrant  fields,  with  cloud- 
shadows  flying  above  them, 
Singing  of  birds  in  the  air,  woodlands 

and  waters  around. 
She  in  those  fragrant  meads  has  wrought, 

every  year  of  her  girlhood  ; 
Over   those   purple   lands  she,  too,  has 

follow'd  the  plough  ; 
And,  like  a  heifer  afield,  or  a  lamb  that  is 

yean'd  in  the  meadows, 
She,  to  herself  and  to  us,  seems  like  a 
part  of  it  all. 

BEAUTY   AT  THE  PLOUGH 

Thus  then,  one  beautiful  day,  in  the  sweet, 

cool  air  of  October, 
High  up  on  Breakheart  Field,  under  the 

skirts  of  the  wood, 
Dolly  was  ploughing  :    she  wore  (why  did 

I  not  sooner  descril>e  it?) 
Just  such  a  dress  as  they  all— all  the 

farm-servants  around  ; 
Only,  it  seem'd  to  be  hers  by  a  right  divine 

and  a  fitness  — 
Color  and  pattern  and  shape  suited  so 

aptly  to  her. 

First,  on  her  well-set  head  a  lilac  hood- 
bonnet  of  cotton, 
Framing  her  amberbright  hair,  shading 

her  neck  from  the  sun  ; 
Then,  on  her  shoulders  a  shawl ;  a  coarse 

red  kerchief  of  woolen, 
Matching  the  glow  of  her  cheeks,  lighting 

her  berry-brown  skin  ; 
Then  came  a  blue  cotton  frock  —  dark  blue, 

and  spotted  with  yellow  — 
Sleev'd  to  the  elbows  alone,  leaving  her 

bonny  arms  bare  ; 

So  that  those  ruddy  brown  arms,  with  the 
dim,  dull  blue  for  a  background 


246 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Seein'd   not   so  rough  as   they  were  — 

softer  in  color  and  grain. 
All  round  her  ample  waist  her  frock  was 

gather'd  and  kilted, 
Showing  her  kirtle,  that  hung  down  to 

the  calf  of  the  leg  : 
Lancashire   linsey  it  was,  with   bands   of 

various  color 
Striped  on  a  blue-gray  ground  :   sober, 

and  modest,  and  warm  ; 
Showing  her  stout  firm  legs,  made  stouter 

by  home-knitted  stockings  ; 
Ending  in  strong  laced  boots,  such  as  a 

ploughman  should  wear  : 
Big  solid   ironshod   boots,  that  added   an 

inch  to  her  stature  ; 
Studded   with   nails    underneath,   shoed 

like  a  horse,  at  the  heels. 
After  a   day  at   plough,  all   clotted  with 

earth  from  the  furrows, 
Oh,  how  unlike  were   her  boots,  Rosa 
Matilda,  to  yours  ! 

FLOS    FLORUM 

OXE  only  rose  our  village  maiden  wore  ; 
Upon  her  breast  she  wore  it,  in  that  part 
Where  many  a  throbbing  pulse  doth  heave 

and  start 
At  the  mere  thought  of  Love  and  his  sweet 

lore. 

No  polish'd  gems  hath  she,  no  moulded  ore, 
Nor  any  other  masterpiece  of  art : 
She   hath   but   Nature's   masterpiece,  her 

heart ; 

And  that  show'd  ruddy  as  the  rose  she  bore 
Because  that  he,  who  sought  for  steadfast 
ness 

Vainly  in  other  maids,  had  found  it  bare 
Under  the  eyelids  of  this  maiden  fair, 
Under  the  folds  of  her  most  simple  dress. 
She  let  him  find  it  ;  for  she  lov'd  him,  too, 
As  he  lov'd  her  :  and  all  this  tale  is  true. 

SWEET   NATURE'S   VOICE 
FROM  "SUSAN:   A  POEM  OF  DEGREES" 

HER  Master  gave  the  signal,  with  a  look  : 

Then,  timidly  as  if  afraid,  she  took 

In  her  rough  hands  the  Laureate's  dainty 

book, 
And  straight  began.     But  when  she  did 

begin, 
Her  own  mute  sense  of  poesy  within 


Broke  forth  to  hail  the  poet,  and  to  greet 
His  graceful  fancies  and  the  accents  sweet 
In  which  they  are  express'd.     Oh,  lately 

lost, 

Long  loved,  long  honor'd,  and  whose  Cap 
tain's  post 

No  living  bard  is  competent  to  fill  — 
How  strange,  to  the  deep  heart  that  now  is 

still, 

And  to  the  vanish'd  hand,  and  to  the  ear 
Whose  soft  melodious  measures  are  so  dear 
To  us  who  cannot  rival  them  —  how  strange, 
If  thou,  the  lord  of  such  a  various  range, 
Hadst  heard  this  new  voice  telling  Arden's 

tale! 
For  this  was  no  prim  maiden,  scant  and 

pale, 

Full  of  weak  sentiment,  and  thin  delight 
111  pretty  rhymes,  who  mars  the  resonant 

might 

Of  noble  verse  with  arts  rhetorical 
And  simulated  frenzy  :  not  at  all ! 
This  was  a  peasant  woman  ;  large  and 

strong, 

Redhanded,  ignorant,  unused  to  song  — 
Accustom'd  rather  to  the  rudest  prose. 
And  yet,  there  lived  within  her  rustic  clothes 
A  heart  as  true  as  Arden's  ;  and  a  brain, 
Keener  than  his,  that  counts  it  false  and  vain 
To  seem  aught  else  than  simply  what  she  is. 
How  singular,  her  faculty  of  bliss  ! 
Bliss  in  her  servile  work  ;  bliss  deep  and 

full 

In  things  beyond  the  vision  of  the  dull, 
Whate'er  their  rank  :    things  beautiful  as 

these 

Sonorous  lines  and  solemn  harmonies 
Suiting  the  tale  they  tell  of  ;  bliss  in  love  — 
Ah,  chiefly  that !  which  lifts  her  soul  above 
Its  common  life,  and  gives  to  labors  coarse 
Such  fervor  of  imaginative  force 
As  makes  a  passion  of  her  basest  toil. 

Surely  this  servant-dress  was  but  a  foil 
To  her  more  lofty  being  !     As  she  read, 
Her  accent  was  as  pure,  and  all  she  said 
As  full  of  interest  and  of  varied  grace 
As  were  the  changeful  moods,  that  o'er  her 

face 

Pass'd,  like  swift  clouds  across  a  windy  sky, 
At  each  sad  stage  of  Enoch's  history. 
Such  ease,  such  pathos,  such  abandonment  | 
To  what  she  utter'd,  moulded  as  she  went 
Her  soft  sweet  voice,  and  with  such  self- 
control 
Did  she,  interpreting  the  poet's  soul, 


MUNBY— ISA  CRAIG    KNOX— EDWIN   ARNOLD 


247 


Bridle  her  own,  that  when  the  tale  was  done 
I  look'd  at  her,  amaz'd  :  she  seem'd  like  one 
Who  from  some  sphere  of  music  had  come 

down, 
And  donn'd  the  white  cap  and  the  cotton 

gown 


As  if  to  show  how  much  of  skill  and  art 
May  dwell  uuthought  of,  in  the  humblest 

heart. 

Yet  there  was  no  great  mystery  to  tell  j 
She  felt  it  deeply,  so  she  read  it  weli 


Craig  Jfnoj: 


THE   WOODRUFFE 


THOU  art  the  flower  of  grief  to  me, 

'T  is  in  thy  flavor  ! 
Thou  keepest  the  scent  of  memory, 

A  sickly  savor. 

In  the  moonlight,  under  the  orchard  tree, 
Thou  wert  pluck'd  and  given  to  me, 

For  a  love  favor. 

• 
In  the  moonlight,  under  the  orchard  tree, 

Ah,  cruel  flower  ! 
Thou  wert  pluck'd  and  given  to  me, 

While  a  fruitless  shower 
Of  blossoms  rain'd  on  the  ground  where  grew 
The  woodruffe  bed  all  wet  with  dew, 

In  the  witching  hour. 

Under  the  orchard  tree  that  night 

Thy  scent  was  sweetness, 
And  thou,  with  thy  small  star  clusters  bright 

Of  pure  completeness, 
Shedding  a  pearly  lustre  bright, 
Seem'd,  as  I  gaz'd  in  the  meek  moonlight, 

A  gift  of  meetness. 


"  It  keeps  the  scent  for  years,"  said  be, 

(And  thou  hast  kept  it)  ; 
"  And  when  you  scent  it,  think  of  me." 
(He  could  not  mean  thus  bitterly.) 

Ah  !  I  had  swept  it 
Into  the  dust  where  dead  things  rot, 
Had  I  then  believ'd  his  love  was  not 

What  I  have  wept  it. 

Between  the  leaves  of  this  holy  book, 

0  flower  undying ! 

A  worthless  and  wither'd  weed  in  look, 

1  keep  thee  lying. 

The  bloom  of  my  life  with  thee  was  pluck'd, 
And  a  close-press'd  grief  its  sap  hath  suck'd, 
Its  strength  updrying. 

Thy  circles  of  leaves,  like  pointed  spears, 

My  heart  pierce  often  ; 
They  enter,  it  inly  bleeds,  no  tears 

The  hid  wounds  soften  ; 
Yet  one  will  I  ask  to  bury  thee 
In  the  soft  white  folds  of  my  shroud  with 
me, 

Ere  they  close  my  coffin. 


<ettoin  SErnolfc 


'ROM  '<  THE    LIGHT    OF    ASIA" 

NIRVANA 

Books  say  well,  my  Brothers  !  each 
man's  life 
The  outcome  of  his  former  living  is  ; 
bygone  wrongs  bring  forth  sorrows  and 

woes, 
The  bygone  right  breeds  bliss. 

it  which  ye  sow  ye  reap.     See  yonder 

fields  ! 
The  sesamum  was  sesamum,  the  corn 


Was  com.     The  Silence  and  the  Darkness 

knew! 
So  is  a  man's  fate  born. 

He  cometh,  reaper  of  the  things  he  sow'd, 
Sesamum,  corn,  so   much   cast  in   past 

birth; 
And  so  much  weed  and  poison-stuff,  which 


mar 


Him  and  the  aching  earth. 


If  he  shall  labor  rightly,  rooting  these, 
And  iil.iii  tin?  wholesome  seedlings  w 


And  planting  wholesome 
they  grew, 


igs  where 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Fruitful   and   fair   and   clean   the   ground 

shall  be, 
And  rich  the  harvest  due. 

If  he   who   liveth,   learning    whence    woe 
springs, 

Endureth  patiently,  striving  to  pay 
His  utmost  debt  for  ancient  evils  done 

In  Love  and  Truth  alway  ; 

If  making  none  to  lack,  he  thoroughly  purge 
The  lie  and  lust  of  self  forth  from  his 
blood  ; 

Suffering  all  meekly,  rendering  for  offence 
Nothing  but  grace  and  good  ; 

If  he  shall  day  by  day  dwell  merciful, 
Holy  and  just  and  kind  and  true  ;  and 

rend 
Desire  from  where  it  clings  with  bleeding 

roots, 
Till  love  of  life  have  end  : 

He  —  dying  —  leaveth  as  the  sum  of  him 
A  life-count  clos'd,  whose  ills  are  dead 

and  quit, 
Whose  good  is  quick  and  mighty,  far  and 

near, 
So  that  fruits  follow  it 

No  need  hath  such  to  live  as  ye  name  life  ; 

That  which  began  in  him  when  he  began 
Is  finish'd  :  he  hath  wrought  the  purpose 
through 

Of  what  did  make  him  Man. 

Never  shall  yearnings  torture  him,  nor  sins 
Stain  him,  nor  ache  of  earthly  joys  and 
woes 

Invade  his  safe  eternal  peace  ;  nor  deaths 
And  lives  recur.     He  goes 

Unto  NiRvAxA.     He  is  one  with  Life 
Yet  lives  not.    He  is  blest,  ceasing  to  be. 

OM,  MANI  FADME,  OM  !  the  Dewdrop  slips 
Into  the  shining  sea  ! 

THE   CALIPH'S    DRAUGHT 

UPON  a  day  in  Ramadan  — 

When  sunset  brought  an  end  of  fast, 
And  in  his  station  every  man 

Prepar'd  to  share  the  glad  repast  — 
Sate  Mohtasim  in  royal  state, 

The  pillaw  smok'd  upon  the  gold  ; 


The  fairest  slave  of  those  that  wait 
Mohtasim's  jewell'd  cup  did  hold. 

Of  crystal  carven  was  the  cup, 

With  turquoise  set  along  the  brim, 
A  lid  of  amber  clos'd  it  up  ; 

'T  was  a  great  king  that  gave  it  him. 
The  slave  pour'd  sherbet  to  the  brink, 

Stirr'd  in  wild  honey  and  pomegranate, 
With    snow   and    rose-leaves    cool'd    the 
drink, 

And  bore  it  where  the  Caliph  sate. 

The  Caliph's  mouth  was  dry  as  bone, 

He  swept  his  beard  aside  to  quaff  : 
The  news-reader  beneath  the  throne 

Went  droning  on  with  ghain  and  kaj. 
The  Caliph  drew  a  mighty  breath, 

Just  then  the  reader  read  a  word  — 
And  Mohtasim,  as  grim  as  death, 

Set  dowa  the  cup  and  snatch'd  his  sword. 


1  amratan  shureefatee  !  " 

"  Speak  clear  !  "  cries  angry  Mohtasim  ; 
"  Fe  lasr  ind'  ilj  min  ulji,"  — 

Trembling  the  newsman  read  to  him 
How  in  Ammoria,  far  from  home, 

An  Arab  girl  of  noble  race 
Was  captive  to  a  lord  of  Roum  ; 

And  how  he  smote  her  on  the  face, 

And  how  she  cried,  for  life  afraid, 

"  Ya,  Mohtasim  !  help,  O  my  king  !  " 
And  how  the  Kafir  mock'd  the  maid, 

And  laugh'd,  and  spake  a  bitter  thing, 
"  Call  louder,  fool  !  Mohtasim's  ears 

Are  long  as  Barak's  —  if  he  heed  — 
Your  prophet's  ass  ;  and  when  he  hears, 

He'll  come  upon  a  spotted  steed  !  " 

The  Caliph's  face  was  stern  and  red, 

He  snapp'd  the  lid  upon  the  cup  ; 
"Keep  this  same  sherbet,  slave,"  he  said, 

"  Till  such  time  as  I  drink  it  up. 
Wallah  !  the  stream  my  drink  shall  be, 

My  hallow'd  palm  my  only  bowl, 
Till  I  have  set  that  lady  free, 

And  seen  that  Roumi  dog's  head  roll." 

At  dawn  the  drums  of  war  were  beat, 
Proclaiming,  "  Thus  saith  Mohtasim, 

'  Let  all  my  valiant  horsemen  meet, 
And  every  soldier  bring  with  him 

A  spotted  steed.'  "     So  rode  they  forth, 
A  sight  of  marvel  and  of  fear  ; 


EDWIN   ARNOLD 


249 


Pied  horses  prancing  fiercely  north, 

Three  lakhs  —  the  cup  borne  in  the  rear  ! 

When  to  Ammoria  he  did  win, 

He  smote  and  drove  the  dogs  of  Roum, 
And  rode  his  spotted  stallion  in, 

Crying,  "  Labbayki  !  I  am  come  !  " 
Then  downward  from  her  prison-place 

Joyful  the  Arab  lady  crept ; 
She  held  her  hair  before  her  face, 

She  kiss'd  his  feet,  she  laugh'd  and  wept. 

She  pointed  where  that  lord  was  laid  : 

They  drew  him  forth,  he  whin'd  for  grace : 
Then  with  fierce  eyes  Mohtasim  said  — 

"  She  whom  thou  smotest  on  the  face 
Had  scorn,  because  she  call'd  her  king  : 

Lo  !  he  is  come  !  and  dost  thou  think 
To  live,  who  didst  this  bitter  thing 

While  Mohtasim  at  peace  did  drink  ?  " 

Flash'd  the  fierce  sword  —  roll'd  the  lord's 

head; 

The  wicked  blood  smok'd  in  the  sand. 
[••  Now  bring  my  cup  !  "  the  Caliph  said. 
Lightly  he  took  it  in  his  hand,  — 
8  down  his  throat  the  sweet  drink  ran 
Mohtasim  in  his  saddle  laugh'd, 
cried,  "  Taiba  asshrab  alan  I 
By  God  !  delicious  is  this  draught !  " 

AFTER   DEATH    IN   ARABIA 

[E  who  died  at  Azan  senda 
lis  to  comfort  all  his  friends  : 

lithful  friends  !     It  lies,  I  know, 
and  white  and  cold  as  snow  ; 
ye  say,  «  Abdallah  's  dead  ! " 
Beeping  at  the  feet  and  head, 
can  see  your  falling  tears, 
can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers  ; 
Tot  I  smile  and  whisper  this,  — 
1  /  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss  ; 

your  tears,  and  let  it  lie  ; 
was  mine,  it  is  not  I." 

set  friends  !     What  the  women  lave 
Jor  its  last  bed  of  the  grave, 
Is  a  tent  which  I  am  quitting, 
Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 
Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 
Like  a  hawk  my  soul  hath  pass'd. 
Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room,  — 
The  wearer,  not  the  garb,  —  the  plume 


Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bare 

Which  kept  him  from  these  splendid  stars. 

Loving  friends  !    Be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye,  — 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'T  is  an  empty  sea-shell,  —  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone  ;• 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there  ; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 
T  is  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  seal'd,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  lov'd  him  ;  let  it  lie  I 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more. 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  his  store  I 

Allah  glorious  !    Allah  good  ! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood  ; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends  ; 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  unspoken  bliss,  instead, 
Lives  and  loves  you  ;  lost,  't  is  true, 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you  ; 
But  in  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfill'd  felicity,  — 
In  enlarging  paradise, 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends  !    Yet  not  farewell  5 
Where  I  am,  ye,  too,  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  your  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space. 
When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepp'd 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept ; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain,—- 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain  ; 
Only  not  at  death,  —  for  death. 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 
View'd  from  Allah's  throne  above  ; 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home  ! 
La  Allah  ilia  Allah ! jre»! 
Thou  love  divine  I    Thou  love  alway  ! 

He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave* 


25° 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


RAGLAN 

AH  !  not  because  our  Soldier  died  before 

his  field  was  won  ; 
Ah  !   not  because  life  would  not  last  till 

life's  long  task  were  done. 
Wreathe   one   less   leaf,  grieve   with   less 

grief,  —  of  all  our  hosts  that  led 
Not  last  in  work  and  worth  approv'd, — 

Lord  Raglan  lieth  dead. 

His  nobleness  he  had  of  none,  War's  Master 

taught  him  war, 
And  prouder  praise  that  Master  gave  than 

meaner  lips  can  mar  ; 
Gone  to  his  grave,  his  duty  done  ;  if  farther 

any  seek, 
He  left  his  life  to  answer  them, —  a  soldier's, 

—  let  it  speak  ! 

T  was  his  to  sway  a  blunted  sword,  —  to 
fight  a  fated  field, 

While  idle  tongues  talk'd  victory,  to  strug 
gle  not  to  yield  ; 

Light  task  for  placeman's  ready  pen  to  plan 
a  field  for  fight, 

Hard  work  and  hot  with  steel  and  shot  to 
win  that  field  aright. 

Tears  have  been  shed  for  the  brave  dead  ; 

mourn  him  who  mourn'd  for  all ! 
Praise  hath  been  given  for  strife  well  striven ; 

praise  him  who  strove  o'er  all, 
Nor  count  that  conquest  little,  though  no 

banner  flaunt  it  far, 
That  under  him  our  English  hearts  beat 

Pain  and  Plague  and  War. 

And  if  he  held  those  English  hearts  too 

good  to  pave  the  path 
To  idle  victories,  shall   we   grudge  what 

noble  palm  he  hath  ? 
Like  ancient  Chief  he  fought  a-front,  and 

mid  his  soldiers  seen, 
His  work  was  aye  as  stern  as  theirs  ;  oh  ! 

make  his  grave  as  green. 

They  know  him  well,  —  the  Dead  who  died 

that  Russian  wrong  should  cease, 
Where  Fortune  doth  not  measure  men,  — 

their  souls  and  his  have  peace  ; 
Ay !  as  well  spent  in  sad  sick  tent  as  they 

in  bloody  strife, 
For  English  Homes  our  English  Chief  gave 

what  he  had,  — his  life. 


FROM   "WITH   SA'DI    IN   THE 
GARDEN  " 

MAHMUD     AND    AYAZ  :      A    PARAPHRASE 

ox  SA'DI 

THEY  mock'd  the  Sovereign  of  Ghaznin; 

one  saith, 

"  Ayaz  hath  no  great  beauty,  by  my  faith  ! 
A  Rose  that 's  neither  rosy-red  nor  fra« 

The  BulbuTs  love  for  such  astonisheth  !  " 

This  went  to  Mahmud's  ears  ;  ill-pleas'd  he 

sate, 

Bow'd  on  himself,  reflecting  ;  then  to  that 
Replied :    "  My   love   is   for  his  kindly 

nature, 
Not  for  his  stature,  nor  his  face,  nor  state  I n 

And  I  did  hear  how,  in  a  rocky  dell, 
Bursting  a  chest  of  gems  a  camel  fell  ; 
King  Mahmud  wav'd  his  sleeve,  permit 
ting  plunder, 

But  spurr'd  his  own  steed  onward,  as  they 
tell. 

His  horsemen  parted  from  their  Lord  amain, 
Eager  for  pearls,  and  corals,  and  such  gain  : 

Of  all  those  neck-exalting  courtiers 
None  except  Ayaz  near  him  did  remain. 

The  King  look'd  back  —  "  How  many  hast 

thou  won, 
CurPd  comfort  of  my  heart?"     He  an- 

swer'd  "  None  ! 

I  gallop'd  up  the  pass  in  rear  of  thee  ; 
I  quit  thee  for  no  pearls  beneath  the  sun  ! " 

Oh,  if  to  God  thou  hast  propinquity, 
For  no  wealth  heedless  of  His  service  be  ! 
If  Lovers  true  of  God  shall  ask  from  God 
Aught  except  God,  that 's  infidelity. 

If  thine  eyes  fix  on  any  gift  of  Friend, 
Thy  gain,  not  his,  is  thy  desire's  end  : 
If  thy  mouth  gape  in  avarice,  Heaven's 

message 
Unto  Heart's  ear  by  that  road  shall  not  wend. 

SONG  WITHOUT  A   SOUND 

THE  Bulbul  wail'd,  "  Oh,  Rose  !  all  night  I 

sing, 
And    Thou,    Beloved !    utterest    not    one 

thing." 


EDWIN   ARNOLD 


•Dear  Bird  !"   she  answer' d,  "scent  and 

blossoming 
Are  music  of  my  Song  without  a  sound." 

The  Cypress  to  the  Tulip  spake  :  "  What 

bliss 
Seest  thou   in  sunshine,  dancing  still  like 

this?" 
*My  cup,"  the  Tulip  said,  "  the  wind's  lips 

kiss  ; 
Dancing    I    hear    the    Song   without    a 

souud." 

The  gray  Owl  hooted  to  the  Dove  at  mom, 
**Why    art    thou    happy    on    thy    jungle- 
thorn?" 
"Hearest    thou    not,"    she    cooed,    "o'er 

Earth's  face  borne 
This  music  of  the  Song  without  a  sound  ?  " 

**  Ah,     Darweesh ! "       moan'd     a     King,